severe nervous attack--seeing things, you know."

"Yes, I know," stormed the old doctor. "I know you well enough, with
your head of cast-iron and no nerves to speak of. I know the crowd and
how you lead them. Infernal fools! You'll get your turn some day. I've
warned you before."

The Duke was standing up before the doctor during this storm, smiling
slightly. All at once the smile faded out and he pointed to the bed.
Bruce was sitting up quiet and steady. He stretched out his hand to The
Duke.

"Don't mind the old fool," he said, holding The Duke's hand and
looking up at him as fondly as if he were a girl. "It's my own
funeral--funeral?" he paused--"Perhaps it may be--who knows?--feel queer
enough--but remember, Duke--it's my own fault--don't listen to those
bally fools," looking towards Moore and the doctor. "My own fault"--his
voice died down--"my own fault."

The Duke bent over him and laid him back on the pillow, saying, "Thanks,
old chap, you're good stuff. I'll not forget. Just keep quiet and you'll
be all right." He passed his cool, firm hand over the hot brow of the
man looking up at him with love in his eyes, and in a few moments Bruce
fell asleep. Then The Duke lifted himself up, and facing the doctor,
said in his coolest tone:

"Your words are more true than opportune, doctor. Your patient will need
all your attention. As for my morals, Mr. Moore kindly entrusts himself
with the care of them." This with a bow toward The Pilot.