He too was walking about. He had walked down to the lake and was standing there looking out across it. Why not?--he was saying to himself--fiercely, doggedly. Over and over again--Well, _why_ not? A hundred nights, alone in his room, he had gone over it. Had not life used him hard enough to give him a little now?--longing had pleaded. And now there was a new voice--more prevailing voice--the voice of her happiness. His face softened to an almost maternal tenderness as he listened to that voice. Too worn to fight any longer, he gave himself up to it, and sat there dreaming. They were dreams of joy rushing in after lonely years, dreams of stepping into the sunlight after long days in fog and cold, dreams of a woman before a fireplace--her arms about him, 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 her things. She was all alone in there. He stepped in. He pushed the door shut, and stood there leaning against it, looking at her, saying nothing. “Oh--you are ill?” she gasped, and laid a frightened hand upon him. The touch crazed him. All resistance gone, he swept her into his arms; he held her fiercely, and between sobs kissed her again and again. He could not let her go. He frightened her. He hurt her. And he did not care--he did not know.