“I don’t intend to be a swindler,” he interrupted, “it’s no use talking any more about it. I’m surprised you could consider a thing like that.” “Very well, then, think of something better.” “I couldn’t think of anything much worse.” “You could do it for a little while, and save up----” He jumped up. “No!” he cried, angrily. “It’s outrageous! Don’t mention it again! There are some things I will _not_ do!” But there weren’t! CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO I It was the tragedy of Lionel’s life that he so genuinely admired what was honourable, and so persistently did what was dishonourable. From good and admirable motives always. He was really unselfish; he considered the interests of Minnie and Sandra first and foremost, and tried, in his imbecile way, to further them. So that Minnie was able, in the course of time, to make him a student of Tonico-Therapy. He had to mortgage his little income for years to come in order to pay his tuition fees and to keep them all alive while he was preparing. He loathed himself for it, but he couldn’t see any other course open to him. He went to the Manhattan Institute one morning. It was on the fifteenth floor of an office building on upper Broadway, a building of dubious repute. He opened a door which was marked “Office,” and was brightly greeted by a pretty young woman. He said he had come only for information. “You’d like to see our place,” she said. “I’ll call one of the doctors.” She pressed a button, and presently in came a man whom she addressed as Doctor Peters. He was preposterously like a doctor, too, tall, grave, black-bearded, with a quite charming manner. He willingly led Lionel about, through the four rooms which constituted the “Institute.” There was the “laboratory” where one learned to compound the “antidotes”; there were two class-rooms, on the walls of which were blackboards and charts, and there was a snug little carpeted room which was the “office of the Dean and Examining Room.” There were pamphlets from which the pupils studied, but they were not to be removed from the premises. Upon completing the course, the student was given the “Twenty Famous Key-Prescriptions,” by means of which every ill could be remedied. Poor Lionel was impressed. He stealthily scrutinised the students already engaged in the course; they were well-dressed, quiet fellows, six in all. Doctor Peters gave him information regarding them. Two of them had been hospital nurses, one was a qualified M. D., one a dentist, the other two former “business men.” “A good class of men,” the doctor said, “we don’t encourage any others.”