her cheer and her tenderness, her comradeship and her passion--all
his to take! Ah, dreams which even thoughts must not touch--so
wonderful and sacred they were.

A long time he sat there, dreaming dreams and seeing visions. The
force that rules the race was telling him that the one crime was the
denial of happiness--his happiness, her happiness; and when at last
his fight seemed but a puerile fight against forces worlds mightier
than he, he rose, and as one who sees a great light, started back
toward Dearborn Street.

On the way he began to cough. The coughing was violent, and he
stepped into a doorway to gain breath. And after he had gone in
there he realised that it was the building of Chicago's greatest
newspaper.

He had been city editor of that paper once. Facts, the things he
knew about himself, talked to him then. There was no answer.

It left him weak and dizzy and crazy for a drink. He walked on
slowly, unsteadily, his white face set. For he had vowed that if it
took the last nerve in his body there should be no more of that
until after they had finished with Z. He knew himself too well to
vow more. He was not even sure of that.

He did not turn in where he wanted to go, but resistance took the
last bit of force that was in him. He was trembling like a sick man
when he stepped into the elevator.

She was just leaving. She was in the little cloak room putting on