and interested. This was where fifteen years of clean living counted for something. When Marcellin and his assistant had first stripped Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly outlined as in an anatomical illustration. Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his shoulder, and he was not quite certain as to where he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at the other end of the room--a shadow that rustled and came toward him. It is small wonder that he was startled. "Who the deuce are you?" he inquired in plain English. "Monsieur is not to sit up," the shadow answered in plain French. Monte repeated his question, this time in French. "I am the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin," she informed him. "Monsieur is not to talk." She placed her hand below his neck and helped him to settle down again upon his pillow. Then she rustled off again beyond the range of the shaded electric light. "What happened?" Monte called into the dark. Then he thought he heard a door open, and further rustling, and a whispered conversation. "Who's that?" he demanded. It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he tried again to make his elbow. Mademoiselle appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand beneath his neck, lowered him once more to his pillow. "Turn up the light, will you?" requested Monte. "But certainly not," answered the nurse. "Monsieur is to lie very quiet and sleep." "I can't sleep." "Perhaps it will help monsieur to be quiet if he knows his fiancee is in the next room." Momentarily this announcement appeared to have directly the opposite effect. "My what?" gasped Monte.