“I was forgetting my own infernal blister,” said he.  “About a square inch of skin is off and all the flesh round, it is as red as a tomato.”

“You’ll have to be careful,” advised the traveler.  “What are you using for it?”

“Using for it?  Why, good heavens, man, the Cure!  What else?”

He regarded Dennymede as if he were insane,’ and Dennymede in his confusion blushed as red as the blistered heel.

They spent the afternoon over the reports and figures which had so greatly depressed the traveler.  He left his chief with hopes throbbing in his breast.  He had been promised a high position in the new Army Contract Department.  As soon as he had gone Sypher rubbed in more of the Cure.

He passed a restless night.  In the morning he found the ankle considerably swollen.  He could scarcely put his foot to the ground.  He got into bed again and rang the bell for the valet de chambre.  The valet entered.  Sypher explained.  He had a bad foot and wanted to see a doctor.  Did the valet know of a good doctor?  The valet not only knew of a good doctor, but an English doctor resident in Geneva who was always summoned to attend English and American visitors at the hotel; furthermore, he was in the hotel at that very moment.

“Ask him if he would kindly step up,” said Sypher.

He looked ruefully at his ankle, which was about the size of his calf, wondering why the Cure had not effected its advertised magic.  The inflammation, however, clearly required medical advice.  In the midst of his ruefulness the doctor, a capable-looking man of five and thirty, entered the room.  He examined the heel and ankle with professional scrutiny.  Then he raised his head.

“Have you been treating it in any way?”

“Yes,” said Sypher, “with the Cure.”

“What Cure?”

“Why, Sypher’s Cure.”

The doctor brought his hand down on the edge of the footboard of the bed, with a gesture of impatience.

“Why on earth do people treat themselves with quack remedies they know nothing about?”

“Quack remedies!” cried Sypher.

“Of course.  They’re all pestilential, and if I had my way I’d have them stacked in the market place and burned by the common hangman.  But the most pestilential of the lot is Sypher’s Cure.  You ought never to have used it.”

Sypher had the sensation of the hotel walls crashing down upon his head, falling across his throat and weighing upon his chest.  For a few instants he suffered a nightmare paralysis.  Then he gasped for breath.  At last he said very quietly: 

“Do you know who I am?”

“I have not the pleasure,” said the doctor.  “They only gave me your room number.”

“I am Clem Sypher, the proprietor of Sypher’s Cure.”

The two men stared at one another, Sypher in a blue-striped pyjama jacket, supporting himself by one elbow on the bed, the doctor at the foot.  The doctor spread out his hands.