need you to advise it. I've seen enough of that sort of
suicide. Buller and Fields are both down and out, and they
began to brace early in the epidemic. Van Horn's a wreck,
though he keeps going; and I tell you, I've more respect for
that man than I ever had before. He's a poseur and a toadier,
no doubt of that, and I've always despised him for it, but he
has real ability and he's worked like a fiend through this
muss, and not all for his rich patients, either. But he's
weakening fast, and it's drug stimulation that's done it. No,
sir: not for mine. But I'll make myself a cup of coffee, for
I've got to keep awake, and I shall sleep in my tracks if I
don't."

He got up and stumbled out into his deserted kitchen.
Macauley followed, helping as best he knew how, and watched
his friend gulp down two cupfulls of a muddy liquid with
feeling of admiration such as a small act of large
significance may sometimes stir in one who apprehends.

Two days later Burns, starting toward home in the Imp at a
late hour in the morning, passed a figure on a corner of a
city street waiting for the outward-bound trolley. He slowed
down beside it.

"May I take you home?" he asked, cap in hand, and interest
showing in eyes which a moment before had been heavy with
fatigue.

Ellen Lessing looked up. "I shall be very glad," she
answered, as she met his outstretched hand and let it draw her