give ample warning.  He could watch himself carefully and study his symptoms.  He could lead the life of a sentinel perpetually on guard.  The thing might never come—­or at the worst it probably would not manifest itself until he was further along in years.  That, it seemed, was the family history, and in such a case Dave was assured of half a life at least.  Ellsworth was altogether too fearful.  Yes, and he was too officious by far.  This was something that did not concern him.

But such reasoning naturally brought little comfort.  Dave’s fears would not be put down.  In common with most men of splendid physique, he had a vague contempt for those less perfect; disease or deformity had never failed to awaken his pity, and he had often argued that defective human beings, like unhealthy stock, should not be allowed to mate and to perpetuate their weaknesses.  This eugenic conviction had helped to ease his conscience somewhat during his acquaintance with Alaire, for he had told himself that Ed Austin, by reason of his inherited vices, had sacrificed all right to love and marriage.  These thoughts came home now to roost.  What was Ed’s evil heritage compared to his own?  It was as vinegar to vitriol.

And yet shining through all Dave’s distress, like a faint, flickering beacon in a storm, was that old doubt of his parentage; and to this he finally began to pin his hopes.  In the day or two that followed his interview with Ellsworth, it afforded him almost the only comfort he knew; for in the end he had to face the truth; he could not marry if he were really Frank Law’s son.

Those were dark hours for Dave.  He discharged his duties automatically, taking no interest whatever in his work; his nights he spent in morose meditation.  Unable to sleep, he tramped the hot streets in an effort to fight off his growing nervousness.  He became irritable, despondent; his eyes took on the look of an invalid’s; his face aged and grayed.  Physically, too, he grew very tired, for no burden is heavier to bear than that of doubt and indecision.

One afternoon Ellsworth entered his office to find Dave waiting for him.  The young man began in a shaky, husky voice: 

“I can’t stand it, Judge.  I’m going to pieces, fast.”

“You do look bad.”

“Yes.  I don’t sleep.  I’m so irritable I can’t get along up at the courthouse.  I’m licked.  The worst of it is, I don’t know whether it’s all imagination, or whether you really stirred up that devilish sleeping thing in me.  Anyhow, something has got me.  All I can do is study and analyze and watch and imagine—­I sit all night thinking—­thinking, until everything gets queer and distorted.  If I were sane before, you’ve about unbalanced me with your damnable suggestions.”

“A few nights of sleep will make you feel better,” Ellsworth said, gravely.

“I tried drugs, but they made me worse.  God!  Then my fancies were sick.  No, I’m going to get out.”