the guest room, a cry between a moan and a scream, but unmistakably a
note of suffering. Sturtevant jammed his fur cap upon his head and
pulled on his gloves.

"Don't go," pleaded Von Rosen in a sudden terror of helplessness.

"I must, but I'll break the speed laws and be back before you know
it. That housekeeper of yours is as good as any trained nurse, and
better. She is as hard as nails, but she does her duty like a
machine, and she has brains. I will be back in a few minutes."

Then Sturtevant was gone, and Von Rosen sat again before his study
fire. There was another little note of suffering from above. Von
Rosen shuddered, rose, and closed his door. The Persian cat came and
sat in front of him, and gazed at him with jewel-like eyes. There was
an expression of almost human anxiety and curiosity upon the animal's
face. He came from a highly developed race; he and his forbears had
always been with humans. At times it seemed to Von Rosen as if the
cat had a dumb knowledge of the most that he himself knew. He reached
down and patted the shapely golden head, but the cat withdrew, curled
himself into a coil of perfect luxuriousness, with the firelight
casting a warm, rosy glow upon his golden beauty, purred a little
while, then sank into the mystery of animal sleep.

Von Rosen sat listening. He told himself that Sturtevant should be
back within half an hour. When only ten minutes had passed he took
out his watch and was dismayed to find how short a time had elapsed.
He replaced his watch and leaned back. He was always listening
uneasily. He had encountered illness and death and distress, but
never anything quite like this. He had always been able to give