Sutton sat in an armchair, a cigarette between his fingers, but he could not bring himself to light it.

Miss Cross was seated rather nearer the bed. Behind them a small Chinese lamp burned, casting a topaz tinted light over the dead girl’s folded hands.

“Poor baby,” repeated Miss Cross, leaning forward and stroking the clasped fingers with a caressing touch. “Rigour has not yet set in,” she added, “nor is there any discolouration of the skin.... Aren’t you going to light your cigarette, Mr. Sutton?”

“I’d rather not, I think.”

Miss Cross bent lower and looked wistfully into the girl’s face. “You pathetic little thing,” she murmured. “I wish you could open your eyes.”

She resumed her position in her chair presently, and sat silently smoothing out her white clothing.

“Haven’t you any idea what it was that Dr. Pockman attempted to do?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Would you care to have me explain it as well as I am able? I’m not very clear at explanations, but it will help pass away the time.”

She settled herself back for her narrative.

“First of all—I am not a graduate nurse, Mr. Sutton. I was merely a probationer at St. Stephen’s. Dr. Pockman suggested that I assist in his research work. Microscope mostly. That’s what I’ve been doing. Dr. Pockman is a most remarkable man.”

Sutton’s acquiescent nod was a very slight one. He did not care for Pockman personally.

The nurse continued.

“What Metchnikoff began, what Claude Bernard continued, what Martens, Beyer, and Voronoff did, and are doing, Sidney Pockman is continuing. But all this means very little to a layman, I suppose?” she added amiably.

“I’ve heard of Metchnikoff,” he said.

“Let us go farther back than Metchnikoff—farther back than any man, living or dead—farther back, even, than mankind itself—millions of years back,” said Miss Cross, smiling.

“I’ll tell you nothing about the origin of life—the first glimmer of life on this planet. Nobody can do more than speculate concerning the birth of life.

“But the living thing which most closely approaches that form of life which first appeared on earth is a tiny, microscopic being composed of a soft mass and a nucleus; and is in the shape of a cell.

“It is called an amœba; it divides itself—reproduces swarms of its fellows by means of perpetual division. And it never dies.”

Sutton seemed dully astonished.

“It’s true,” she said. “The amœba never dies. Voronoff himself says decisively: ‘The breath of life which for the first time gave animation to matter, held nothing but life. Nature, at that time, knew nothing of death.’”

Miss Cross leaned over toward Sutton, resting her elbows on her knees, and laid one forefinger across the palm of the other hand.

“It’s this way,” she explained; “the human body is not an individual entity; it is an ensemble composed of billions of cells of different sorts, each cell alive, each cell invested with its own special but limited functions and duties, and each cell busy night and day.

“The human body is a society, a state, a republic of living cells, ruled by the delicate cells that compose the brain.

“The primitive type of cell is the protozoan. Our body’s various and highly organized cells are all derived from the elements of the initial cell.

“The initial cell is deathless. But its highly sensitive and more complicated descendants which compose our tissues have been greatly modified, and their life depends upon the assent and good will of all of the cells of our body.... I wonder if I am making it clear to you, Mr. Sutton?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, then, among all these billions of living and highly specialized workers called cells, which compose that beehive, or anthill community we call the human body, are many primitive cells without business or profession, and they reproduce themselves continually. These are the white blood corpuscles and the conjunctive cells; and they are always at war with the more highly developed cells.

“When they win that war, as they always do in the end, we die.”

“What use are these conjunctive cells, then?” asked Sutton, mildly interested.

“They are the regular army of the body-republic, and they fight and slay foreign microbes which invade us. When they become unruly, insurgent, and a powerful majority, they attack their own fellow citizens. Then the body-republic falls. That is death, Mr. Sutton.”

He said nothing, but the nurse saw he was more or less interested. She said:

“What controls and keeps in order these billions of citizen-cells in our body-republic are fluids from certain vital glands. If these glands are removed, the cells go crazy and murder one another, and we die.”

“What are these vital glands?” he enquired.

“The thyroid in the throat; four small para-thyroid glands no bigger than a needle’s eye near it; the two small supra-renal glands; the little pituitary gland under the brain; the pineal gland in the middle brain, which, a million years ago, was perhaps a third eye; and the gland called the metathoracic or nymphalic gland, which lies deep in the nape of the neck and which means instant death if injured or removed.... And that, Mr. Sutton, was what caused this poor child’s death.”

“What?”

“You were not watching closely, were you, when Dr. Pockman operated?”

“Not—closely, no.”

“You did not see him draw a long, gold-headed steel pin from where it was imbedded in the back of her neck?”

“Good God! I didn’t see that!”

“It had been, probably, in her hair—to hold on her crown, perhaps, and had become dislodged. If she threw back her head suddenly it might have driven the pin deep into her neck.... Well, there it was, under the soft, bright hair at the nape of her neck. Death must have been instantaneous.”

“Did Pockman tell you I was dancing with her at the time—or about to—I already had placed my arm around her. She was laughing at something I said.... I remember, now, that she threw back her head and laughed.... And crumpled up in my arms.... It is horrible—horrible beyond words!——”

Miss Cross nodded. “Yes, Dr. Pockman told me. No wonder you are upset.... I really wish you’d light your cigarette.” But he shook his head.

After a moment he looked up at the nurse in pallid inquiry.

She nodded. “Now I’ll try to explain what Dr. Pockman did,” she said in her cheerful voice. “He telephoned for Mr. Stent and me. You saw that miniature refrigerator?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Mr. Sutton. Death stops the heart and produces functional discord of the organs. The individual is dead then. Very well. But the several tissues composing that individual’s body are not dead yet. Not at all. Hair continues to grow; the skin is alive; the bones retain vitality; the brain, the glands, almost all the organs still remain alive as long as eighteen hours.

“And if these organs are removed from the body before their own individual death, they may be kept alive for weeks if preserved in a zero temperature. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Yes, they retain all their vital energy for weeks.”

There was a silence.

“Shall I tell you what Dr. Pockman accomplished?”

“Please.”

“Dr. Pockman’s original research is in the direction of gland grafting. Today a girl died at St. Stephen’s, of a fractured skull. Dr. Pockman is externe there. He operated but could not save her. However, finding the nymphalic gland uninjured and alive, he removed it in a jar of Ringer’s liquid maintained at a temperature of some forty degrees.

“I preserved this living gland in the refrigerator you saw. When he telephoned, Mr. Stent and I brought it here. You saw us place it in Ringer’s liquid again, didn’t you?”

“Yes—I suppose so.”

“You saw Dr. Pockman make the incision, remove the injured gland, and graft this living gland in its place.”

“Was that what he did?”

“That was what he did, Mr. Sutton.”

After a tense silence: “Why did Pockman do it?” demanded Sutton hoarsely. “Had he any hope—any idea that—that death is not finality?”

She replied frankly: “He desired to know what effect on the cells the secretions of this living gland might produce under these conditions. Nobody knows. It never has been tried before. Theoretically it ought to restrain the conjunctive cells in their onslaught against the nobler cells, and invigorate and stiffen the resistance of these latter in the increasing anarchy now running riot.”

“How long before any conclusion can be reached?”

“By morning, perhaps. If there is anything to be noticed, four to five hours will show it.... Meanwhile, I must get some sleep.” She rose. “If you think—if you feel that somebody ought to watch here tonight,” she added, “why, you may remain, of course. But really it is not necessary, I assure you.”

“I think I’ll remain until Pockman arrives.”

“That is nice of you, Mr. Sutton.”

She left the room. After a while she returned wearing hat and street costume and carrying her satchel.

For a few moments she bent silently over the bed, then, pausing to offer a firm, cool hand to Sutton, went away with a nod and a slight smile. The outer grille clanged. Sutton and the dead were alone.