“And that’s how you struck it rich?”
“Yes, but so far I have converted less than half of them into money. The remainder I have placed in the casket in a New York safe deposit vault, but the skull—”
As he spoke he gestured toward an ebony cabinet just above his head. There, behind a glass door, stood a huge skull, whose lidless blue eyes, looking out toward the distant city, seemed to pierce every obstacle between itself and the casket of sapphires over which it still kept watch and ward.
A Surgical Love-Cure.
BY JAMES BUCKHAM.
One dull, gray afternoon in November I was sitting in my office in Raymond Square, deeply absorbed in an article in my Medical Journal,—the description of an experiment conducted by a famous French surgeon for the purpose of determining whether sight could be restored to a blind person by engrafting the live nerve of a dog’s eye upon the shriveled and atrophied nerve of the patient’s eye. So engrossed was I in the fascinating details of the experiment that I did not hear the door of my office open, nor was I aware of the presence of a second person until a peculiarly deep-toned, rich, and musical voice broke upon my ear.
“Have I the honor of addressing Doctor Marston?”