doubt return presently."

"Bishop Albertson tells me that you are just recovering from a severe
illness, Mr. Edwards," said Mr. Marmion, as he sat down in the
comfortable chair.

"Yes, I have been quite ill with typhoid fever," was the reply.

"Are you sleeping and eating well?"

"No, not by any means. If I am gaining at all, it is a very slow gain. I
have almost an aversion to food, and every exertion is a task."

"Ah, that ought not to be," said the gentleman. "You are surely not
gaining if you can neither eat nor sleep. Perhaps your liver is not
right. What is the doctor giving you?" Carl handed him the bottle
containing the medicine, which he uncorked and after touching the liquid
to his tongue remarked: "It seems to be the right stuff. I'm something of
a doctor, myself, and I must help to shake up that liver. Who is
your doctor?"

"Dr. King."

"Ah, yes--Hiram King. I know him."

The seemingly mere friendly interest of the doctor aroused in Carl no
suspicion that he was the direct object of his visit, and that the
conversation really constituted a diagnosis of his case.

After a short silence, Dr. Marmion incidentally, seemingly, asked: "You