"Thank God, they need not know," he repeated; and then felt with a curious, irritated surprise that the words did not seem to lift the burden in the least. The expression of relief was only a form. But the other words were true. And then, in this hazy, giddy world where he lived now, sense began to twist itself about until he did not know which part were true or which he wanted true. He was too tired, he told himself. Hands and feet and head felt too big for the rest of him. They jumped and throbbed; and he won through the night somehow, sleeping fitfully, and thankful when the morning brought the cheerful Hensham and his breakfast. But Hensham was decidedly awkward this morning, and when the spoon and bowl were put away he sat on the bedside, attempting conversation nervously.
"You—you I suppose you haven't noticed anything wrong with any part of you—your feet, for instance?" he asked, presumably addressing the wall.
Had he been looking at Dick he would have seen for one instant what no man saw through that which followed. It was the sudden flicker of a deadly fear; but Dick's voice was normal to the somewhat obtuse policeman.
"I can't say that I have. Frost-bite, is it?"
"Well, yes; it is. The left foot. Baskerville—he's H.B. factor, and quite a bit of a doctor—he has been overhauling it, and he is very anxious to know if it hurts you at all."
"Ah! Fears mortification, does he?"
Dick was conscious with a sickening certainty that that left foot was just as dead and heavy a thing as the rest of him.
"Well—of course, one can't tell. It's such a little while since you came round, and perhaps—would you like to see him? He told me to send for him any time."
"Thank you. If he is at liberty I might as well. He wants to take it off, I suppose. The H.B. factors have exploited themselves in surgery from immemorable ages."
"Good Heavens! You don't imagine he'd want to do it unless"
"I never try to imagine other men's thoughts." Dick smiled a little. "Don't look so scared, Hensham. He
