If the beautiful girl and the handsome youth seemed well and full of vitality, Jim Craighead was almost insolent in his defiant heartiness. Ross was the orphaned son of Craighead’s sister who had died when he was a few years old. The bond between these two was very strong—Ross was a sensitive soul, of the artistic type, against which characteristic the buoyant Craighead had waged a losing fight. The boy could not be hardened.
At college he was all for humanities, classics, science, logic, but close calculation in business seemed to have been left out of his nature. Sports had attracted him—he was good material for the teams, especially in baseball and swimming. Just as Craighead had determined that he would be hopeless in the banking and brokerage operations which he controlled, Ross had met Tessie Prettyman, who was secretary to Craighead’s manager. Her efficiency was due to the fact that she took every instruction seriously and obeyed implicitly. She believed anything she was told, which was inconvenient when she was listening to a rival of the firm.
Craighead was inclined to discourage the intimacy he saw growing between the pair but when Ross began to grind earnestly at tasks Jim knew the boy loathed, he began to consider the girl less a liability than an asset. She was an orphan, that was all they knew of her history. But she was well educated, a lady in all her actions, so that Jim soon grew as fond of her as Ross. This, then, was the circle which had been broken up by a tragedy so unnecessary in Dr. Jarvis’s mind as to be heartbreaking.
Like all healthy men—men who have never felt an ache or a pain, Jim was virtually a baby when some slight cut or other wound came in a tennis or other game. Once Doctor Jarvis had found him taking morphine. Jim had said, rather shamefacedly:
“It’s not a habit, Milt, but I just can’t stand pain. I’ve never had much, I guess that’s the reason.”
This last day he had seen Craighead, the recollection of which came to the doctor’s mind over and over again, the young man had taken the front seat with Tessie, while Jim and Doctor Jarvis sat in the rear.
“Jim, old man, I’ll be missing you,” said the doctor, as they left him at his apartment.
“We’ll be waiting at the pier when you come back, Milt, twice as famous as you are now,” was Jim’s reply.
That was like him. He had helped Doctor Jarvis through his early difficulties and setbacks, encouraging him and rejoicing in his successes. He was foster father and pal in one. So Doctor Jarvis was very impatient as his brain refused to accept the fact that Jim Craighead was dead.
In no way could he reconcile his sturdy friend’s death with a theory that the shock of an operation would kill him. His analysis was searching. Nothing in his experience was overlooked. He was skilled in X-ray therapy as well as X-ray photography. His science was modern—the latest researches were commonplaces to him. But facts were what he needed, after all. No conclusions could be drawn from surmises. This thought drove him to the room of Inspector Craven at headquarters. They were good friends, for the doctor had often given expert testimony in trials in which the inspector was interested.