E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustrations.
      See 23379-h.htm or 23379-h.zip:
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/7/23379/23379-h/23379-h.htm)
      or
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/7/23379/23379-h.zip)


Transcriber note:

      This etext was produced from Weird Tales, March, 1951.
      Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
      the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.





OLD MR. WILEY

by

GREYE LA SPINA







[Illustration: _Old Mr. Wiley and the dog came over every night ... but
were they real?_]


"He just lies here tossing and moaning until he's so weak that he sinks
into a kind of coma," said the boy's father huskily. "There doesn't seem
anything particular the matter with him now but weakness. Only," he
choked, "that he doesn't care much about getting well."

Miss Beaver kept her eyes on that thin little body outlined by the fine
linen sheet. She caught her breath and bit her lower lip to check its
trembling. So pitiful, that small scion of a long line of highly placed
aristocratic and wealthy forebears, that her cool, capable hand went out
involuntarily to soothe the fevered childish brow. She wanted suddenly
to gather the little body into her warm arms, against her kind breast.
Her emotion, she realized, was far from professional; Frank Wiley IV had
somehow laid a finger on her heartstrings.

"If you can rouse him from this lethargy and help him find some interest
in living," Frank Wiley III said thickly, "you won't find me
unappreciative, Miss Beaver."

The nurse contemplated that small, apathetic patient in silence. Doctor
Parris had warned her that unless the boy's interest could somehow be
stimulated, the little fellow would die from sheer lack of incentive to
live. Her emotion moistened her eyes and constricted her throat muscles.
She had to clear her throat before she could speak.

"I can only promise to do my very best for this dear little boy," she
said hurriedly. "No human being can do more than his best."

"Doctor Parris tells me you have been uniformly successful with the
cases he's put you on. I hope," the young father entreated, "that you'll
follow your usual precedent."

"The doctor is too kind," murmured Miss Beaver with slightly lifted
brows. "I fear he gives me more credit than I deserve."

"There I hope you're wrong. He calls you an intuitive psychic. It is
upon your intuitions that I'm banking now. My affection hampers me from
fathoming Frank's inner-most thoughts. If I were really _sure_ what he
needed most, I'd get it for him if it were a spotted giraffe," declared
his father passionately. "But I'm unable to go deeply enough into his
real thoughts."

"If his own father cannot think of something he would care for enough to
make him want to live, how can an outsider find out what he might be
wanting?" argued the nurse, a touch of resentment in her voice. "Would
not his own mother know what would make him want to take hold on life?"

There was an awkward pause.

"His mother," began Frank Wiley III and was interrupted by a light tap
on the door panel, at which he went silent, turning away as if relieved
to escape any explanation.

The door swung open, permitting the entrance of a young and very pretty
woman, one who knew exactly what a charming picture she made in jade
negligee over peach pajamas. About her exceedingly well-shaped head
ash-blonde hair lay in close artificial waves. She was such a
distinctively blonde type that Miss Beaver could not control her
slightly startled downward glance at the dark child tossing on the bed.
Her upward look of bewilderment was met by Frank Wiley's faint smile.

"He takes after the founder of our family," said he in a low, almost
confidential voice. "His great-grandfather was said to have had Indian
blood in his veins, as well as a touch of old Spain. The boy doesn't
look like his mother or me. He's a real throw-back."

The pretty woman had come across the room, pettishly lifting her silk
clad shoulders. Through the straps of embroidered sandals red-tipped
toes wriggled. At the tumbled bed and its small restless occupant she
threw what appeared to Miss Beaver a distasteful glance, ignoring the
nurse entirely although she had not met her previously and must have
known that the strange young woman was the new night nurse.

"Do come to bed, Frank," she urged crossly, placing a proprietary hand
on her husband's coat sleeve. "It won't do you any good to moon around
in here and it might disturb Francis."

Miss Beaver stood by her patient's bed, her clear gray eyes full upon
young Mrs. Wiley. The nurse experienced a kind of disgust, together with
one of those uncomfortable intuitions upon the reliability of which
Doctor Parris was always depending. She knew, all at once, that Mrs.
Wiley was that strange type of modern woman which makes a cult of
personal beauty, taking wifehood lightly and submitting to maternity as
infrequently as possible.

"I suppose you're right, Florry," the father conceded, with a last
solicitous look at the exhausted child. "Miss Beaver...?"

The nurse nodded, her lips a tight red line.

"It would be better for the patient if the room were quiet and
darkened," she said with decision.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the door had closed behind the pair, Miss Beaver busied herself
making the child more comfortable for the night. She smoothed out the
cool linen sheets, drawing them taut under the wasted little body. She
bathed the hot face with water and alcohol. To all her ministrations the
child submitted in a kind of lethargy, speaking no word, making no sign
that he had noticed a different attendant. When she had quite finished,
he breathed a long sigh of relaxation; his quivering, weak little body
went suddenly limp, and Miss Beaver had a good scare as she bent over
him, trying to bring back that weary and reluctant spirit to its
exhausted mortal domicile.

It was by then nearly half past seven. The child lay supine;
heavy-lidded eyes half opened upon this tormentress who had somehow
succeeded in calling him back into the dimly lighted room from the
shadows of Lethe's alluring banks. Miss Beaver, kneeling beside young
Frank's bed, talked tenderly to him in a soft monotone. She made all
manner of gratuitous promises, if only Frank would try like a good boy
to get well. She told him firmly that he could, if he wanted to. She
made her suggestions with gently persuasive voice, coloring all she said
with the warmth of a heart peculiarly open to the unknown needs of the
listless child. To those unknown needs she opened wide her spirit,
crying within for enlightenment and help.

While she was thus occupied, she became aware of that sensation of being
watched that is so startling when one considers oneself alone. Without
rising, she turned her face quickly from the pillow of young Frank and
looked across the bed. A member of the household about whom Doctor
Parris had neglected to tell her was standing there, one finger on his
lips which, though firm, wore a reassuring smile that immediately
conveyed his warm friendliness. He was a well preserved elderly
gentleman of aristocratic mien, clad in a bright blue garment of odd
cut, his neck wound about with spotlessly white linen in lieu of a
starched collar. His high nose, raised cheek-bones, flashing black eyes
and olive skin contrasted in lively fashion with a heavy mane of white
hair. His eyes as well as his lips conveyed a kindliness which Miss
Beaver's answering smile reciprocated.

Tapping his lips again with admonitory forefinger, the old gentleman now
produced, with a broad smile, something from beneath his right arm.
Leaning down, he set this carefully beside the listless child. As he put
it down, it gave a whining little cry.

Young Frank's eyes widened incredulously. Miss Beaver kept him under
intent regard as he turned his dark head on the pillow to see what it
was that was sitting on the bed.

"Oh!" he cried in a kind of rapture and put one thin white hand outside
the covers to touch the small creature that now stood wagging a brief
tail in friendly fashion. "Is it mine?"

The child looked up at the old gentleman who once more, with serious
mien and a significant movement of his head toward the door, gestured
for silence. The boy's eyes blinked once or twice; then with a weak but
ecstatic smile he laid a pale hand upon the furry coat of the little dog
that began to bounce about, licking the hand that caressed it.

Miss Beaver told herself that the old gentleman had found a way to lay
hold on young Frank's reluctant spirit. She watched color creep into the
boy's face as he cuddled the little dog blissfully, and she drew a deep
breath of heart-felt relief when the heavy eyelids drooped and the boy
slipped off into a natural sleep, nothing like the heavy coma from which
she had struggled so hard to bring him back earlier that night.

She looked up thankfully to meet the understanding gaze of the old
gentleman who with that gesture of admonishment bent over and picked up
the dog, tucked it under his blue-sleeved arm and went across the room
to the door. He did not speak but Miss Beaver received the vivid
impression that his visit would be repeated the following night; it was
as if her sensitive intuitions could receive and register a wordless
message from that other sympathetic soul.

The following morning found the lad refreshed and improved. His first
waking thought was for the dog and in reply to his cautiously whispered
inquiry Miss Beaver whispered back that his grandfather (the strong
family resemblance made her sure it had been the boy's wise grandfather
who had found a means of rousing the child from an all-but-fatal
lethargy) had taken it with him but would bring it again that night.
Miss Beaver wondered at herself for promising this but felt somehow sure
that old Mr. Wiley would bring the pup without fail. She believed that
she had read indomitable determination in those piercing black eyes; she
knew inwardly that he would not rest until he had found that thing which
would give young Frank renewed interest in living.

Although the child appeared, if anything, a trifle less apathetic the
following day and Miss Beaver felt that each succeeding visit of old Mr.
Wiley with the fox-terrier would give the lad another push toward
convalescence, yet the nurse did not feel inclined to mention openly
that secret visit in the dead of night. The old gentleman's finger
tapping his gravely smiling lips was one thing that restrained her; the
other was the irritation betrayed, ingenuously enough, by the boy's
mother during her early morning visit to the sickroom.

       *       *       *       *       *

Young Mrs. Wiley looked especially pretty in a pleated jade sports
skirt, a white pullover sweater, a jade beret on her fair hair. Under
one arm she carried a small white Pomeranian about whose neck flared a
matching wide jade satin bow.

"Well, how is Francis this morning?" she inquired briskly with the
determined manner of one dutifully performing an unpleasant task. "He
looks better, doesn't he?"

Miss Beaver, to whom this inquiry was addressed, nodded shortly.

The boy did not look at his pretty young mother after his first
indifferent glance as she entered the room. He lay in silence with
closed eyes and compressed lips, a most unchildlike expression on his
thin boyish face.

"Look, Francis! See how sweet Kiki looks with this big green bow!"

Mrs. Wiley dropped the Pomeranian on the bed. The dog snarled and
snapped viciously. Frank thrust out one hand and gave the animal a
pettish push. Bestowing a hard, cold glare on her son, Mrs. Wiley
snatched up the growling dog in high indignation.

"There! I ask you, nurse, if that child isn't just unnatural. I thought
boys liked dogs. Francis is queer. I believe he actually hates Kiki."
She lifted the dog against her face, permitting it to loll its pink
tongue against her carefully rouged cheek. "Pwecious ... Was it muvver's
own pwecious ikkle Kiki? Francis," she addressed her son sharply,
"you'll have to get over your nasty ugliness to poor little Kiki. It's a
shame, the way you hate dogs!"

"But I don't hate dogs!" cried the boy vehemently, his voice breaking
with indignant resentment. "It's just Kiki. I'd love to have a little
dog of my very own, Mother. If you'd only let me have a little dog of my
very own!" The faint voice died away in a sick wail. The boy's eyelids
closed tightly against gushing tears.

Mrs. Wiley gave a short exclamation of impatience.

"Francis has the idea that a dirty mongrel would be nicer than a
beautiful pedigreed dog like Kiki," she cried disgustedly.

"But why not try letting him have a dog of his own?" asked Miss Beaver
ill-advisedly, her interest getting the better of her. "Perhaps it would
give him interest enough ..."

"Nonsense!" snapped Mrs. Wiley sharply. "I won't have street mutts
wandering around the house to irritate poor little Kiki. Nasty smelly
common mongrels with fleas. Indeed not. I'm surprised at you, nurse, for
making the suggestion."

With that, young Mrs. Wiley removed her vivid presence from the room,
leaving Miss Beaver shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrows.
And the little boy crying softly, the sheet pulled over his dark head.

"What's all this, Frankie?" asked the father's voice.

"_She_ won't let me have a dog of my own," sobbed the boy, coming out
from under the concealing sheet, lips a-quiver, eyes humid.

Miss Beaver's lips compressed. He called his mother "She" as if she were
an outsider....

Frank Wiley III stood for a moment looking at his son, then let himself
gently down on the edge of the bed, laying one big palm on the little
chap's hot forehead. He did not speak, just sat and stroked the fevered
brow with tenderness. On his face a dark look brooded. His eyes were
absent, unhappy.

"Daddy, why couldn't I have just a _little_ puppy of my own?"

The father replied with obvious effort.

"You know, Frankie, we have one small dog already," said he with forced
lightness.

"Oh! Kiki!"

"Couldn't you manage to make friends with Kiki?"

"_She_ doesn't really want Kiki to like me, Daddy." (Wise beyond his
years, marvelled Miss Beaver.) "Kiki doesn't really like little boys."

"Oh, my God, Frankie, don't go to crying again! Don't you see that Daddy
can't quarrel with Mother over a dog? Try to get well, old man, and
we'll see then what we can do. How about a pony, son?"

The little boy disappeared under the sheet, refusing to reply. Miss
Beaver could not bear his convulsive, hardly-controlled sobs, and turned
an accusing face upon Frank Wiley III.

"Is it possible," she asked icily, "that Frank's mother would actually
refuse him so small a thing as a puppy, if it meant the merest chance of
his getting better?"

The face turned to hers was gloomy, the voice impatient.

"Oh, good God! Was ever a man in such a damnable situation? My dear Miss
Beaver, ask the doctor to tell you how much influence I have in this
household, before you blame me for not taking a firm stand with a woman
as nervous and temperamental as Mrs. Wiley. I'd give my life willingly
to bring my boy back to health but unhappily I'm not like the founders
of our family. Some day I'll show you our family album. You'll find it
easy to trace the strong resemblance Frankie has to his forebears. Its
the damnably high spirit he gets from them that is so stubbornly killing
him now."

       *       *       *       *       *

He rose, wheeled about and went to the door. Paused. Still with that
brooding dark look on his face he turned to her again.

"If my death would make it any easier for Frank, I wouldn't hesitate a
moment. I'm a failure. It wouldn't matter. But I feel that by living and
watching over him I'm standing between my boy's development as an
individual, and the subtlest, softest peril that could possibly threaten
him. I would rather he died, if he cannot bring about what he wills for
his own development. As for me, I ... I am a dead man walking futilely
among the living."

With that, he swung out of the room.

Miss Beaver knelt by the boy's bed, murmuring persuasively to him as she
strove to make him check his hysterical sobs.

"Frankie, you really must stop crying. You're too big a chap to cry and
it only makes you worse. If you're a good boy to-day and eat your food,
I'll let your grandfather bring the little dog tonight," she promised
rashly.

The sheet turned down and Frank's reddened face peered at her
plaintively.

"That was my _great_-grandfather," he assured her gravely.

"Well, great or great-great, it's all the same," she conceded
good-humoredly.

"Do you really think he'll bring Spot tonight?"

"Of course he will. But you must eat your meals, take a long nap, and
stop crying."

"Oh, I promise!" the boy cried eagerly.

The day, Miss Beaver was told later, was uneventful. She had remained
with the day nurse until Doctor Parris had made his visit. The doctor
had been much pleased to find his small patient in good spirits and
congratulated himself upon having put Miss Beaver on the case.

"If our young friend continues to improve like this, Miss Beaver," he
joked, "we'll have him playing football within a month." He lowered his
voice for her ear only. "Has anything particular come under your notice
that might account for this agreeable change?"

Miss Beaver's forehead wrinkled slightly. She regarded the doctor from
narrowed, thoughtful eyes.

"Tell me, Doctor Parris, if it isn't asking too much, why Mr. Wiley is a
Man-Afraid-of-his-Wife?"

The doctor could not repress an involuntary chuckle.

"Come now, nurse, don't you think you're asking rather a good deal?"

"No, I don't," retorted Miss Beaver shortly. "Nor do you think so,
either. What I'm trying to get at is, why Mr. Wiley lets Mrs. Wiley
prevent him from giving Frank a puppy that he wants?"

The doctor regarded her thoughtfully.

"So it's a pup the boy wants. Ha, hum!" he uttered.

"I'm asking you," she repeated impatiently.

"Oh! Eh! Well! Mrs. Wiley, you have undoubtedly discerned, is one of
those self-centered egotists who simply cannot permit people to live any
way but her way. She won't have another dog in the house because it
might interfere with the comfort of that silly damn--excuse me--Pom of
hers. If Frank were a bit older and could feign a penchant for the Pom
and his mother got the idea that the animal's affection might be
alienated from her, she would at once get the child another dog, just to
keep him away from Kiki."

"All of which sounds subtle but isn't very helpful," decided Miss Beaver
with unflattering directness. "I've told Mr. Wiley that I thought a dog
might interest his son and Mr. Wiley replies that his wife won't let him
get one. There is something more behind this and it's obvious you don't
want to tell me."

"Oh, hang it, nurse! You always manage to get your own way with me,
don't you? I'll probably have to marry you one of these days, so I can
keep the upper hand," he grinned. "Well, then, Wiley is a weak sister
and oughtn't to be. He's completely under his chorus-girl wife's thumb.
He lost a good bit in Wall Street and what's left is in her name, so
he's got to watch his step until he's recouped his losses.

"If he were like his father or his grandfather ... but he isn't,"
snapped the doctor vexedly. "Now, this boy here, he's a throw-back,
young Frank is. He's the spittin' image of the founder of the family and
I'm willing to wager he's got the grit and determination that once
endowed old Frank Wiley I."

"I've observed," murmured Miss Beaver, "that you and his father call the
boy Frank, while his mother refers to him as Francis."

"That's her hifalutin way of putting on the dog, nurse," Doctor Parris
grinned wickedly. "His name on the birth certificate is Frank but she'd
make a girlish Francis of him if she had her own way. For some reason
she isn't getting it. Her husband sticks to the old family name of Frank
and the boy won't answer to Francis.

"She has a healthy respect for the first old Frank Wiley. If you were to
see the family album, nurse, you'd be quick to catch the look in the old
boy's eyes. Nobody ever put anything over on that lad, believe me."

"I've no doubt of that," thought Miss Beaver to herself, the indomitable
countenance of her midnight visitor clear before her mind's eye. It was
astonishing, that strong family resemblance. Aloud she snapped: "Family
album, indeed! What I'm after is to get permission for this child to
have a pet. I'm positive it would make all the difference in the world
to him."

"You won't get permission, nurse. Mrs. Frank won't have any other pets
around to bother precious Kiki," he said grimly.

"Not if it's a matter of life or death?" she persisted.

"She would laugh at your putting it just that way," growled the doctor,
an absent expression stealing over his kindly face.

"Well, we'll see what we'll see," observed Miss Beaver cryptically, her
mouth an ominous tight red line.

       *       *       *       *       *

The doctor suddenly spoke close to her ear, an odd note in his voice.
"I'm going to prescribe something very unusual, nurse. Tomorrow night a
covered basket will be delivered here for you. Take it into the boy's
room and open it if he wakens during the night. Understand?"

"I can't say I do, Dr. Parris."

"You will," he promised. "I'll take that basket and its contents when I
come around for my morning call. Unless," he told her grimly, "I can see
my way to make the prescription stick."

It was with the utmost anxiety that Miss Beaver awaited the coming that
night of old Mr. Wiley. The day nurse had told her that Frank had eaten
a good lunch and what for him was a hearty supper. He had agreed to
sleep if he were awakened the moment Spot arrived, and Miss Beaver had
accepted his whispered offer. To her relief, he fell asleep immediately,
natural color on his thin cheeks.

Mr. Wiley's light tap came on the door panel. She met his grave smile
with a soft exclamation of welcome. The small dog was tucked under one
arm and he paused to warn her with that admonitory touch of one finger
to his lips that the secret of his visits must be preserved. She nodded
comprehension, leaned over the sleeping boy and whispered softly in his
ear.

He stirred, opened drowsy eyes. Then he pulled himself up on his pillow,
reaching thin hands out to the spotted dog which nipped playfully at
him.

"Isn't he wonderful? When may I have him all the time?"

"When you're well and don't need a night nurse," promised Miss Beaver
rashly and was rewarded by a broad smile from the courtly old gentleman
who tipped back his white-maned head and laughed silently but
whole-heartedly.

"I'll get well at once, nurse. Don't you think I might be well enough
tomorrow? Or the day after? Not," he added politely, making Miss
Beaver's heart ache with his childish apology, "not that I want you to
leave, you know."

"That will be for the doctor to decide, Frank. But the more you eat and
sleep and grow happy in your heart, the faster you'll get well," advised
Miss Beaver earnestly.

For a long happy hour young Frank fraternized with the fox-terrier while
the old gentleman sat silently observing him, a grimly humorous smile
hovering about his firm lips. Then the boy's eyes began to cloud
sleepily and much to Miss Beaver's surprise and pleasure Frank
relinquished his canine playmate and fell asleep, a blissful smile
curving his childish mouth as he breathed with soft regularity.

Then old Mr. Wiley picked up the puppy, tucked it under one blue-clad
arm and again admonishing Miss Beaver with a finger athwart his lips,
tiptoed from the room, closing the door behind very gently.

The nurse thought with a sigh of relief that the old gentleman had
looked both pleased and gratified. She herself could hardly wait for
morning, and for the day to pass, and was both pleased and encouraged
herself when she went on duty the next night. Frank had asked to sit up
for supper and when Miss Beaver entered the room he manfully refused the
day nurse's assistance back to bed. The day nurse's up-lifted brows
betrayed her astonishment at the sudden turn for the better the young
patient had taken.

"I'm almost well," piped up Frank Wiley IV, the moment the door closed
behind the day nurse. "Tomorrow, the doctor says, I can sit out in the
garden in the sun. Couldn't I have Spot then?"

"You just leave that to me," said Miss Beaver determinedly. "I may have
much to say about your keeping Spot, Frank."

In her heart she was in reality panic-stricken for she knew that pretty
Mrs. Wiley would indifferently laugh off the idea that ownership of a
dog could mean returned health to her little son. Upon Frank Wiley III
Miss Beaver felt no reliance could be placed; he was an uxorious
weakling. Her unfounded hope rested on old Mr. Wiley alone; old Mr.
Wiley whose firm mouth and implacable dark eyes made her feel that he,
and he alone, held the key to the situation. That he had realized young
Frank's need and had filled it, albeit in secret, gave her to believe
that he would also furnish such good reason for yielding to young
Frank's boyish yearning as would make Mrs. Frank retire in disorder from
any contest of clashing wills.

But when the old gentleman stepped into the room that night he did not
carry the little dog under his arm; what he had was something bulkier.
He stopped beside the basket which had been sent to Miss Beaver and
which she had not yet opened. He leaned down and released the lid. A
little fox-terrier jumped out and stood, one small paw upheld, its head
cocked to one side.

Miss Beaver drew in a quick gasping breath of admiring amazement at what
she realized was the doctor's unusual prescription. If only old Mr.
Wiley would stand by, to uphold it, she felt that the boy would recover.
She drew his attention with a gesture.

"See how nicely our patient's coming along, Mr. Wiley," she whispered.
"Oh, please, won't you make them let him keep the little dog Doctor
Parris sent him? You can. I know you can."

       *       *       *       *       *

Old Mr. Wiley leaned over the bed, apparently taking pleased note of the
faint color on the boy's cheeks. He smiled with obvious satisfaction. He
lifted his head, met Miss Beaver's pleading eyes, and nodded
emphatically. Then he slackened his hold on whatever he had tucked under
one arm and deposited it at the foot of the bed, meeting Miss Beaver's
questioning eyes with a significant narrowing of his own. She looked at
the thing, then up at him, puzzled. What he had brought in was one of
those huge, plush-covered atrocities with tall ivory letters on the
front that proclaimed it to be a Family Album. She surmised that this
must be the album which the doctor had said she should look over to note
how closely the small boy in the bed resembled his ancestors.

With a light gesture old Mr. Wiley relegated the album to the
background, his glance seeking the fox-terrier that still hesitated in
the middle of the room. Miss Beaver understood. She gently wakened the
small patient, who sat up rubbing sleepy eyes expectantly. The dog,
sensing a play-mate, bounded upon the bed and began lapping at Frank's
eager fingers with small whimperings.

"He loves me. Don't you, Spot? Look, nurse. He has black spots over his
eyes, bigger than I remembered them. And he seems littler tonight,
doesn't he? But he knows me. Gee, I wish I could keep him all the time."

Old Mr. Wiley sat silently in a comfortable chair at the shadowy back of
the room as he had done on his previous visits but his severe old
features softened as he watched the happy child and the antics of the
little dog. When at last Frank's eyes grew humid and heavy with sleep,
and he began to slip down on his pillow, he clung to his canine
playmate, refusing to relinquish the puppy which had cuddled cosily
against him.

Old Mr. Wiley's heavy brows lifted into a straight line over his high
nose. A grimly ironical smile drew up the corners of his mouth. He made
a gesture of resignation. His humorously twinkling eyes met the
consternation in Miss Beaver's but he appeared pleased and unmoved at
the prospect of the dog's remaining with the boy. He rose from his
comfortable chair, drew a deep breath, again touched the admonitory
finger to his lips and withdrew, still smiling. The door closed quietly
behind his stately blue-clad figure.

Miss Beaver told herself agitatedly that he had no business to throw the
onus of the whole situation onto her shoulders; but even while she
resented this high-handed behavior she was inwardly aware with one of
her strong intuitions that old Mr. Wiley knew indubitably what he was
about, and that at the psychological moment he would justify her in
permitting the dog to remain with young Frank.

She was in no hurry the following morning to turn over her patient to
the day nurse and lingered on in the hope that Doctor Parris would
appear early enough to get the dog away, as he had half hinted. That he
would do his best to make the prescription stick she saw immediately
after he took a single look at young Frank who sat up nimbly, his color
normal for the first time in weeks. The suppressed excitement in the
atmosphere Doctor Parris could hardly be expected to understand until
the boy drew back the covers to show the inquisitive black nose and
beady eyes hidden beneath.

"Gee, Doctor Parris, isn't he just the cutest dog you ever saw?"
chuckled young Frank. "Oh, gosh, here _she_ comes!"

The cover was whipped over the dog, whose whimpers subsided with
uncommonly good sense. Perhaps young Mrs. Wiley might not have felt the
puppy's presence but Kiki's sharp nose was not so easily put upon. Kiki,
with a shrill bark, scrambled from her arms and leaped upon the bed
where he began scratching furiously at the cover which Frank was holding
desperately but vainly against this unexpected onslaught.

"What on earth ..." began his mother, her eyes going from Kiki to Miss
Beaver's harried expression. "Oh! A nasty little dog right in Francis's
bed! Francis, push it out! It's probably full of fleas. How did that
nasty little mongrel get in here?"

"This pup isn't a mongrel, Mrs. Wiley," snapped the doctor. "Anyone can
see with half an eye it's a pedigreed animal."

She disregarded him. "Frank! Come here! Nurse, you should have known
better than to allow that horrid little mutt...."

Frank Wiley III almost ran into the room, obviously distressed over
something quite different from his wife's trouble.

"Somebody has meddled with one of our family portraits," he cried with
obvious agitation. "It's been damaged...."

"Oh, bother the family portraits!" shrilled his wife, highly
exasperated. "Look at the nasty common dog this nurse has let Francis
have right in his bed! I never heard of such nerve! Call Mason! Have him
put this dog out immediately!"

"I'll take the dog, if it's to be put out," growled Doctor Parris. "I
know a good dog when I see one," he muttered resentfully.

"Let _me_ see that dog!" exclaimed Frank Wiley III in a strangely grave
voice. He pushed the frantically excited Kiki from the bed to the floor.
He drew back the cover from the little dog huddled apprehensively
against young Frank's thin body. "Oh, good Lord! It's incredible! It
just isn't possible!"

"Isn't it?" snapped his wife, looking with distastefully wrinkled nose
at her husband's chalky face, wide staring eyes. "Well, here it is and
out it goes. Ring for Mason, Frank, at once. I want this dirty little
mongrel out!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Without paying the slightest attention, her husband turned to Miss
Beaver. As he did so, his staring eyes fell upon the ornate plush album
on the foot of the bed.

"How did that get here?" he demanded.

"Old Mr. Wiley brought it last night," admitted Miss Beaver, who was
feeling a trifle indignant at the old gentleman's defection.

"Old Mr. Wiley?" echoed Doctor Parris; stupidly, for him, Miss Beaver
thought. "_Old Mr. Wiley?_"

Frank Wiley III, his voice shaky, almost shouted at her.

"Do you mean to stand there and tell me that old Mr. Wiley was here and
brought that album?"

"I may as well tell you now as ever," snapped Miss Beaver and
deliberately turned her back upon Mrs. Frank, addressing herself
pointedly to Doctor Parris and the boy's father. "The old gentleman has
been in here every night to see Frank since I've been on duty and he
brought his little dog, and in my opinion his little dog should get the
credit of any improvement in the patient's condition."

Frank Wiley III picked up the bulky volume and began turning the thick
cardboard pages. His hands trembled; his face was queerly pasty.

"Turn the pages yourself, nurse, will you? See if you can find old Mr.
Wiley's picture."

Miss Beaver flipped the cardboard pages one after another until a
familiar face looked quizzically at her from a faded old daguerrotype.
She put on finger triumphantly on it.

"Here he is. This is old Mr. Wiley."

Mrs. Frank tiptoed nearer, took a single look, then with a shrill scream
fainted into Doctor Parris's convenient arms.

He muttered under his breath: "Superstitious damsel, this." Of Miss
Beaver he asked drily as he deposited his fair burden distastefully in
the big chair where the old gentleman had been sitting on his nightly
visits: "My dear Miss Beaver, are you _very_ certain old Mr. Wiley has
been dropping in of nights?"

"Of course I am," declared Miss Beaver indignantly. "Is it so
astonishing that I recognize a face I've been seeing now for three
consecutive nights?"

"This _is_ unbelievable," Frank Wiley III gasped.

Said the doctor gravely: "I ask you to be so very certain, nurse,
because the original of that picture has been dead for over fifteen
years."

As those astonishing words fell on Miss Beaver's ears, she turned from
the doctor in sheer resentment.

"I don't care for practical jokes," said she with dignity to the boy's
apparently stupefied father, "and I must say I resent being made sport
of. I tell you plainly that old Mr. Wiley, the man in this picture," and
she tapped her finger impressively on the album page, "has spent a
couple of hours with Frankie and me every night since I've been on duty
here, and that's _that_!"

"Then that's settled," exclaimed the boy's father in a loud and
determined voice. "The dog stays."

As if miraculously restored, Mrs. Frank sprang to her feet.

"Is that _so_? Well, my dear husband, I'm afraid you're sadly mistaken.
The dog goes!" She gave her husband glare for glare, the rouge standing
in two round spots on her white face.

His look was one of active dislike. "We'll see about that, Florry. All
of you, come out into the hall. I want you to see something. Then let
anyone say Frank can't keep that dog!"

He beckoned imperatively and they followed down the great staircase into
the great hall below, where he stopped under a gilt-framed oil portrait,
life size. His finger pointed significantly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Beaver deciphered the small label at the front of the massive
frame. The painting was a portrait of Frank Wiley I, the founder of the
Wiley family. Her eyes rose higher to really look at the picture for the
first time since she had been in the house. It was the living likeness
of old Mr. Wiley and it almost seemed to her that, as she stared, one of
his eyelids quivered slightly as if in recognition of her belated
admiration for his diplomatic procedure. Beside him on the painted table
one of his fine hands lay negligently or rather, seemed to be lying
higher than the table proper, resting on ... was it just bare canvas?

"Look for yourself, Florry! Where is the fox-terrier that was painted
sitting on the table under Grandfather's hand?"

Young Mrs. Wiley stared pallidly at the likeness of the founder of the
Wiley clan. "White paint," she conjectured. Then, peering closer at the
canvas: "Somebody's scraped off the paint where the dog used to be."

Stiff and grim, his own man now, her husband faced her.

"Does my boy keep that dog?"

Behind them sounded a low exclamation. At the head of the staircase
stood young Frank, the puppy tucked securely under one arm.

"Nobody's going to take away my little dog that Great-grandfather Wiley
brought me," cried the lad stoutly, black eyes flashing, thin face
determined and unyielding.

"Don't let that dog come near me!" screamed Mrs. Frank and went into a
genuine attack of hysteria. "He isn't _real_!"

Doctor Parris exchanged a look with Miss Beaver, whose face was pale but
contented.

"I always knew you were psychic," he whispered, brows drawn into a
puzzled scowl. "That's how the old gentleman, God rest his wilful soul,
could get through."

"I wondered that he never spoke a single word! Now that it's over, I
think I'm going to faint," decided Miss Beaver shakily.

"Nonsense," snapped the doctor with scant courtesy. "But _she_ is well
scared, thank God. I hardly think she will interfere much in future with
young Frank. And by the looks of him, the boy's father has had his
backbone stiffened considerably."

"That painted dog?" whispered Miss Beaver's tremulous lips.

"Eh? Yes. Ah, yes, the dog," murmured the doctor, too casually.

"You--you--dared!" uttered Miss Beaver incoherently under her breath.

"Not altogether," he protested against her ear.

He pointed upward. Miss Beaver's eyes followed that gesture and met the
admonitory, inscrutable, but very gratified pictured eyes of old Mr.
Wiley.