“Then you will not sign this paper?” Lot said, presently.

“No, I will not; and I tell you, once for all, when you die I make out my certificate as it should be.”

“How?”

“By a wound from a knife or other sharp instrument, inflicted by a person or persons unknown.”

Lot’s face, towards the doctor, looked as if death had already struck it; but he spoke firmly.  “How long will it be, first?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Approximate.”

“A false step may do it.”

“I can lie still!”

“A coughing-spell may do it.”

“I will not cough!”

“More than that, a thought may do it, if it stirs your heart too much.  I tell you as I should want to be told myself:  your life hangs by a thread.”

“Sometimes a thread does not break,” Lot said, with a meditative light in his eyes.

“That’s true enough.”

“This may not.”

“True enough.”

“How long will you give it to last, before you sign this paper?”

“A year.”

“Then you will sign this if I live a year from to-day?”

“No, I will not sign it, for you may have another stab on New-year’s day, if you seem likely to live so long,” said the doctor, shortly; “but I will promise you not to make out your certificate of death from this wound.”

“How great a chance of life have I?” Lot asked, hoarsely, after a minute’s pause.

“Small.”

“Yet there is one?”

“Yes.”

The doctor opened his chest, and began selecting some bottles.

“I want no more of your nostrums,” said Lot.

“Very well,” said the doctor, replacing the bottles.  “I would not make out that certificate sooner than necessary—­that is all.”

“Dose death and go to the root of the matter,” said Lot.  “Then you won’t sign this paper?”

“No,” replied the doctor, with a great emphasis of negation.

“There is one thing you will do,” said he.

“What?” asked the doctor, suspiciously.

“If I die within a year, to your truest belief, from any other cause than this wound now in my side you will say so.”

“Of course I will do that,” replied the doctor, staring at him.

“And you will in such a case let this wound drop into oblivion, you will hold your peace concerning it, ‘forever after?’”

“Of course I will.”

“Swear to it?”

“I swear.  But what in—­”

Lot smiled.  “Some time, when you have leisure, write a treatise on ‘Who killed the man?’” he said, as if to turn the subject, “and keep going back to first causes.  You’ll find startling results; you may decide that ’twas your duty to sign the paper.”

“I have no time for treatises,” returned the doctor, gruffly.

“You may trace the killing back to yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of it.  Good-day.”