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It was only a few weeks after this modest first appearance on the boards of “The Man with an Aneurism,” that, happening to be at dinner party of practical business men, I sought to interest them with the details of the above story, delivered with such skill and pathos as I could command. I regret to say that, as a pathetic story, it for a moment seemed to be a dead failure. At last a prominent banker sitting next to me turned to me with the awful question: “Why don’t your friend try to realize on his life insurance?” I begged his pardon, I didn’t quite understand. “Oh, discount, sell out. Look here–(after a pause). Let him assign his policy to me, it’s not much of a risk, on your statement. Well–I’ll give him his five thousand dollars, clear.”

And he did. Under the advice of this cool-headed–I think I may add warm-hearted–banker, “The Man with an Aneurism” invested his money in the name of and for the benefit of his wife in certain securities that paid him a small but regular stipend. But he still continued upon the boards of the theatre.

By reason of some business engagements that called me away from the city, I did not see my friend the physician for three months afterward. When I did I asked tidings of The Man with the Aneurism. The Doctor’s kind face grew sad. “I’m afraid–that is, I don’t exactly know whether I’ve good news or bad. Did you ever see his wife?”

I never had.

“Well, she was younger than he, and rather attractive. One of those doll-faced women. You remember, he settled that life insurance policy on her and the children: she might have waited; she didn’t. The other day she eloped with some fellow, I don’t remember his name, with the children and the five thousand dollars.”

“And the shock killed him,” I said with poetic promptitude.

“No–that is–not yet; I saw him yesterday,” said the Doctor, with conscientious professional precision, looking over his list of calls.

“Well, where is the poor fellow now?”

“He’s still at the theatre. James, if these powders are called for, you’ll find them, here in this envelope. Tell Mrs. Blank I’ll be there at seven–and she can give the baby this until I come. Say there’s no danger. These women are an awful bother! Yes, he’s at the theatre yet. Which way are you going? Down town? Why can’t you step into my carriage, and I’ll give you a lift, and we’ll talk on the way down? Well–he’s at the theatre yet. And–and–do you remember the ‘Destruction of Sennacherib?’ No? Yes you do. You remember that woman in pink, who pirouetted in the famous ballet scene! You don’t? Why, yes you do! Well, I imagine, of course I don’t know, it’s only a summary diagnosis, but I imagine that our friend with the aneurism has attached himself to her.”

“Doctor, you horrify me.”

“There are more things, Mr. Poet, in heaven and earth than are yet dreamt of in your philosophy. Listen. My diagnosis may be wrong, but that woman called the other day at my office to ask about him, his health, and general condition. I told her the truth–and she FAINTED. It was about as dead a faint as I ever saw; I was nearly an hour in bringing her out of it. Of course it was the heat of the room, her exertions the preceding week, and I prescribed for her. Queer, wasn’t it? Now, if I were a writer, and had your faculty, I’d make something out of that.”

“But how is his general health?”

“Oh, about the same. He can’t evade what will come, you know, at any moment. He was up here the other day. Why, the pulsation was as plain–why, the entire arch of the aorta– What! you get out here? Good-by.”

Of course no moralist, no man writing for a sensitive and strictly virtuous public, could further interest himself in this man. So I dismissed him at once from my mind, and returned to the literary contemplation of virtue that was clearly and positively defined, and of Sin, that invariably commenced with a capital letter. That this man, in his awful condition, hovering on the verge of eternity, should allow himself to be attracted by–but it was horrible to contemplate.

Nevertheless, a month afterwards, I was returning from a festivity with my intimate friend Smith, my distinguished friend Jobling, my most respectable friend Robinson, and my wittiest friend Jones. It was a clear, star-lit morning, and we seemed to hold the broad, beautiful avenue to ourselves; and I fear we acted as if it were so. As we hilariously passed the corner of Eighteenth Street, a coupe rolled by, and I suddenly heard my name called from its gloomy depths.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Doctor, as his driver drew up by the sidewalk, “but I’ve some news for you. I’ve just been to see our poor friend —-. Of course I was too late. He was gone in a flash.”

“What! dead?”

“As Pharaoh! In an instant, just as I said. You see, the rupture took place in the descending arch of–“

“But, Doctor!”

“It’s a queer story. Am I keeping you from your friends? No? Well, you see she–that woman I spoke of–had written a note to him based on what I had told her. He got it, and dropped in his dressing-room, dead as a herring.”

“How could she have been so cruel, knowing his condition? She might, with woman’s tact, have rejected him less abruptly.”

“Yes; but you’re all wrong. By Jove! she ACCEPTED him! was willing to marry him!”

“What?”

“Yes. Don’t you see? It was joy that killed him. Gad, we never thought of THAT! Queer, ain’t it? See here, don’t you think you might make a story out of it?”

“But, Doctor, it hasn’t got any moral.”

“Humph! That’s so. Good morning. Drive on, John.”