"I—I have a ward—a room—fitted up with every modern surgical device—every improvement," she said. "It adjoins my office. Would you mind living there for a while—say for a week at first—until I can be perfectly certain in my diagnosis?"
"Do you intend to put me to bed?" he asked, appalled.
"Oh, no! Only I wish to watch you carefully and note your symptoms from moment to moment. I also desire to try the effects of certain medicines on you—"
"What kind of medicines?" he asked uneasily.
"I cannot tell yet. Perhaps antitoxin; I don't know; perhaps formalin later. Truly, Mr. Carden, this case has taken on a graver, a more intimate significance since I have learned who you are. I would have worked hard to save any life; I shall put my very heart and soul into my work to save you, who have done so much for us all."
The trace of innocent emotion in her voice moved him.
"I am really not ill," he said unsteadily. "I cannot let you think I am—"
"Don't speak that way, Mr. Carden. I—I am perfectly miserable over it; I don't feel any happiness in my discovery now—not the least bit. I had rather live my entire life without seeing one case of Lamour's Disease than to believe you are afflicted with it."
"But I'm not, Miss Hollis!—really, I am not—"
She looked at him compassionately for a moment, then rose.