The rain came down in a deluge, and scarcely had it struck when
the door opened and Cardigan hurried in to close the window. He
remained for half an hour, and after that young Mercer, one of his
two assistants, came in at intervals. Late in the afternoon it
began to clear up, and Father Layonne returned with papers
properly made out for Kent's signature. He was with Kent until
sundown, when Mercer came in with supper.

Between that hour and ten o'clock Kent observed a vigilance on the
part of Dr. Cardigan which struck him as being unusual. Four times
he listened with the stethoscope at his chest, but when Kent asked
the question which was in his mind, Cardigan shook his head.

"It's no worse, Kent. I don't think it will happen tonight."

In spite of this assurance Kent was positive there was in
Cardigan's manner an anxiety of a different quality than he had
perceived earlier in the day. The thought was a definite and
convincing one. He believed that Cardigan was smoothing the way
with a professional lie.

He had no desire to sleep. His light was turned low, and his
window was open again, for the night had cleared. Never had air
tasted sweeter to him than that which came in through his window.
The little bell in his watch tinkled the hour of eleven, when he
heard Cardigan's door close for a last time across the hall. After
that everything was quiet. He drew himself nearer to the window,
so that by leaning forward he could rest himself partly on the
sill. He loved the night. The mystery and lure of those still
hours of darkness when the world slept had never ceased to hold