Mr. Harris was pale but calm when Dr. Stapleton introduced him. Really, he did not share his friend’s fears. It was true that he had suffered much, but not enough to indicate any disease that might prove fatal. Of that he felt sure, or thought he did; but his eyes had read the faces of the men and women who had waited as he had, and his feelings had been greatly touched. It was more of them than of himself he thought while he answered the physician’s questions and submitted to his examination. He was surprised when the Doctor at last said, “If you can spare the time to wait I should like to call a friend who understands these cases even better than I.”
“Certainly I can wait,” replied Harris; “I have no other errand in London but this.”
“Then I will see if he can be summoned,” said the Doctor, as he went towards his telephone.
“You are not quite sure whether there is anything the matter with me?” asked Harris.
“Perfectly sure,” was the reply; “but there may be something that can be done.”
The other doctor arrived, and Harris was not kept long in suspense. “I am sorry to tell you that yours is a hopeless case.” It was put bluntly, and yet the tones of the man’s voice were as gentle as he could make them.
“There is no cure for me?”
“I am afraid none; at least, we do not know of any.”
Harris’s face became white to the lips, and he did not speak for a few seconds. Presently he said, “Very well. Other men have had to bear pain for many years; what they have done I must do. I suppose it will be years?”
“Do you positively wish me to tell you?”