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The physician bared the chest of the unconscious Chandler. Easily and skilfully he injected, subcutaneously, the contents of the syringe into the muscles of the region over the heart. True to his neat habits in both professions, he next carefully dried his needle and re-inserted the fine wire that threaded it when not in use.

In three minutes Chandler opened his eyes, and spoke, in a voice faint but audible, inquiring who attended upon him. Doctor James again explained his presence there.

“Where is my wife?” asked the patient.

“She is asleep–from exhaustion and worry,” said the doctor. “I would not awaken her, unless–“

“It isn’t–necessary.” Chandler spoke with spaces between his words caused by his short breath that some demon was driving too fast. “She wouldn’t–thank you to disturb her–on my–account.”

Doctor James drew a chair to the bedside. Conversation must not be squandered.

“A few minutes ago,” he began, in the grave, candid tones of his other profession, “you were trying to tell me something regarding some money. I do not seek your confidence, but it is my duty to advise you that anxiety and worry will work against your recovery. If you have any communication to make about this–to relieve your mind about this–twenty thousand dollars, I think was the amount you mentioned–you would better do so.”

Chandler could not turn his head, but he rolled his eyes in the direction of the speaker.

“Did I–say where this–money is?”

“No,” answered the physician. “I only inferred, from your scarcely intelligible words, that you felt a solicitude concerning its safety. If it is in this room–“

Doctor James paused. Did he only seem to perceive a flicker of understanding, a gleam of suspicion upon the ironical features of his patient? Had he seemed too eager? Had he said too much? Chandler’s next words restored his confidence.

“Where–should it be,” he gasped, “but in–the safe–there?”

With his eyes he indicated a corner of the room, where now, for the first time, the doctor perceived a small iron safe, half-concealed by the trailing end of a window curtain.

Rising, he took the sick man’s wrist. His pulse was beating in great throbs, with ominous intervals between.

“Lift your arm,” said Doctor James.

“You know–I can’t move, Doctor.”

The physician stepped swiftly to the hall door, opened it, and listened. All was still. Without further circumvention he went to the safe, and examined it. Of a primitive make and simple design, it afforded little more security than protection against light-fingered servants. To his skill it was a mere toy, a thing of straw and paste-board. The money was as good as in his hands. With his clamps he could draw the knob, punch the tumblers and open the door in two minutes. Perhaps, in another way, he might open it in one.

Kneeling upon the floor, he laid his ear to the combination plate, and slowly turned the knob. As he had surmised, it was locked at only a “day com.”–upon one number. His keen ear caught the faint warning click as the tumbler was disturbed; he used the clue–the handle turned. He swung the door wide open.

The interior of the safe was bare–not even a scrap of paper rested within the hollow iron cube.

Doctor James rose to his feet and walked back to the bed.

A thick dew had formed upon the dying man’s brow, but there was a mocking, grim smile on his lips and in his eyes.

“I never–saw it before,” he said, painfully, “medicine and–burglary wedded! Do you–make the–combination pay–dear Doctor?”

Than that situation afforded, there was never a more rigorous test of Doctor James’s greatness. Trapped by the diabolic humor of his victim into a position both ridiculous and unsafe, he maintained his dignity as well as his presence of mind. Taking out his watch, he waited for the man to die.

“You were–just a shade–too–anxious–about that money. But it never was–in any danger–from you, dear Doctor. It’s safe. Perfectly safe. It’s all–in the hands–of the bookmakers. Twenty–thousand–Amy’s money. I played it at the races–lost every–cent of it. I’ve been a pretty bad boy, Burglar–excuse me–Doctor, but I’ve been a square sport. I don’t think–I ever met–such an–eighteen-carat rascal as you are, Doctor–excuse me–Burglar, in all my rounds. Is it contrary–to the ethics–of your–gang, Burglar, to give a victim–excuse me–patient, a drink of water?”