He came back to the lamp-lit office, which was more of a big, handsome, comfortable living room than a physician’s quarters, and for a moment or two he stood on the threshold, looking around.

In the pleasant, subdued light of the lamp Rosalind Hollis looked up and around, smiling involuntarily to see him standing there; then, serious, silent, she dropped her eyes to the pages of the volume he had discarded—­volume nine of Lamour’s great works.

Even with the evidence before her, corroborated in these inexorably scientific pages which she sat so sadly turning, she found it almost impossible to believe that this big, broad-shouldered, attractive young man could be fatally stricken.

Twice her violet eyes stole toward him; twice the thick lashes veiled them, and the printed pages on her knee sprang into view, and the cold precision of the type confirmed her fears remorselessly: 

“The trained scrutiny of the observer will detect in the victim of this disease a peculiar and indefinable charm—­a strange symmetry which, on closer examination, reveals traces of physical beauty almost superhuman—­”

Again her eyes were lifted to Carden; again she dropped her white lids.  Her worst fears were confirmed.

Meanwhile he stood on the threshold looking at her, his pulses racing, his very soul staring through his eyes; and, within him, every sense clamoring out revolt at the deception, demanding confession and its penalty.

“I can’t stand this!” he blurted out; and she looked up quickly, her face blanched with foreboding.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

“No—­not that sort of pain!  I—­won’t you please believe that I am not ill?  I’m imposing on you.  I’m an impostor!  There’s nothing whatever the trouble with me except—­something that I want to tell you—­if you’ll let me—­”

“Why should you hesitate to confide in a physician, Mr. Carden?”

He came forward slowly.  She laid her small hand on the empty chair which faced hers and he sank into it, clasping his restless hands under his chin.

“You are feeling depressed,” she said gently.  Depression was a significant symptom.  Three chapters were devoted to it.

“I’m depressed, of course.  I’m horribly depressed and ashamed of myself, because there is nothing on earth the matter with me, and I’ve let you think there is.”

She smiled mournfully; this was another symptom of a morbid state.  She turned, unconsciously, to page 379 to verify her observation.

“See here, Miss Hollis,” he broke out, “haven’t I any chance to convince you that I am not ill?  I want to be honest without involving a—­a friend of mine.  I can’t endure this deception.  Won’t you let me prove to you that these symptoms are—­are only significant of something else?”

She looked straight at him, considering him in silence.

“Let us begin with those dark circles under my eyes,” he said desperately.  “I found some cold-cream in my room and—­look!  They are practically gone!  At any rate, if there is a sort of shadow left it’s because I use my eyes in my profession.”