“Really, Mr. Moore,” said the doctor, interposing, “you must have a little care; you must calm yourself.  I am sure your friend will attend to all these matters for you, but in the meantime you must exercise the greatest self-control, or you may do your throat some serious injury.  Why should you be disturbed by so common an incident in professional life?  Your substitute will do well enough, and the public will greet you with all the greater favor on your return.”

“It never happened before,” the young man said, in lower tones.  “I never had to give in before.”

“Now tell me,” Dr. Whitsen continued.  “Dr. Ballardyce is your usual medical attendant, is he not?”

“I know him very well; he is an old friend of mine, but I’ve never had occasion to trouble him much,” was the answer, given with some greater care and reserve.

“I will call on him as I go by, and if possible we will come down together in the afternoon,” the doctor said; and then Maurice fetched him writing materials from the other room, and he sat down at the little table.  Before he went, he gave some general directions; then the two friends were left alone.

Lionel took up the pencil again, and turned to the block of paper.

“The L300, Maurice,” his trembling fingers scrawled, showing how his mind was still torturing itself with those obligations.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Maurice answered, lightly.  “You give me Lord Rockminster’s address, and I’ll take the check to him myself as soon as the doctors have been here in the afternoon.  Don’t you worry about that, Linn, or about anything; for you know you mustn’t increase that feverishness, or we shall have you a right-down, bona-fide patient on our hands; and then when will you get back to the theatre again?  I am going out now to telegraph to Lehmann.  But I don’t think I need alarm the Winstead people; you see, they don’t read the Sunday papers; and, indeed, if I send a note now to Francie, she will get it the first thing in the morning.  Linn,” he continued, after a moment’s hesitation, “are you too much upset by your own affairs to listen to a bit of news?  I came with the intention of telling you, but perhaps I’d better wait until you get over these present troubles.”

Lionel looked at him, with those bright, restless eyes, for a second or two, as if to gather something from his expression; and then he wrote: 

“Is it about Francie?”

Maurice nodded; it was enough.  Lionel stretched out his hot hand and took that of his companion.

“I am glad,” he said, in a low voice.  And then, after a moment or two’s thinking, he turned to his writing again:  “Well, it is hard, Maurice.  I have been looking forward to this for many a day, and have been wondering how I should congratulate you both.  And I get the news now—­when I’m ruined.  I haven’t enough money even to buy a wedding-present for Francie!”