Louis Joseph Vance

The Destroying Angel Louis Joseph Vance

"Then I'm to understand there's no hope for me?""I'm afraid not...." Greyerson said reluctantly, sympathy in his eyes."None whatever." The verdict was thus brusquely emphasized by Hartt, one of the twoconsulting specialists. Having spoken, he glanced at his watch, then at the face of his colleague, Bushnell, whocontented himself with a tolerant waggle of his head, apparently meant to imply that thesubject of their deliberations really must be reasonable: anybody who wilfully insists onfooting the measures of life with a defective constitution for a partner has no logical excusefor being reluctant to pay the Piper. Whitaker looked quickly from one to the other of his three judges, acutely sensitive to thedread significance to be detected in the expression of each. He found only one kind andpitiful: no more than might have been expected of Greyerson, who was his friend. Of theothers, Hartt had assumed a stony glare to mask the nervousness so plainly betrayed by hisstaccato accents; it hurt him to inflict pain, and he was horribly afraid lest the patient breakdown and "make a scene." Bushnell, on the other hand, was imperturbable by nature: aman to whom all men were simply "cases"; he sat stroking his long chin and hoping thatWhitaker would have the decency soon to go and leave them free to talk shop-his petdissipation. Failing to extract the least glimmering of hope from the attitude of any one of them, Whitaker drew a long breath, unconsciously bracing himself in his chair."It's funny," he said with his nervous smile-"hard to realize, I mean. You see, I feel so fit-""Between attacks," Hartt interjected quickly."Yes," Whitaker had to admit, dashed."Attacks," said Bushnell, heavily, "recurrent at intervals constantly more brief, each a triflemore severe than its predecessor."He shut his thin lips tight, as one who has consciously pronounced the last word. Greyerson sighed."But I don't understand," argued the prisoner at the bar, plaintively bewildered. "Why, Irowed with the Crew three years hand-running-not a sign of anything wrong with me!""If you had then had proper professional advice, you would have spared yourself suchstrains. But it's too late now; the mischief can't be undone."Evidently Bushnell considered the last word his prerogative. Whitaker turned from himimpatiently."What about an operation?" he demanded of Greyerson. The latter looked away, making only a slight negative motion with his head."The knife?" observed Hartt. "That would merely hasten matters.""Yes," Bushnell affirmed.... There was a brief uneasy silence in the gloomy consulting room. Then Whitaker rose."Well, how long will you give me?" he asked in a strained voice."Six months," said Greyerson, miserably avoiding his eye."Three," Hartt corrected jerkily