"Then," exclaimed Dr. Crossett, "there need be no more of this." He looked contemptuously around the shabby room and out through the window at the noisy, squalid neighborhood. "To live as New York lives! It is not civilization. It is like the cave man, to live in a hole in a cliff. Bah! To sit on an ugly chair, and to look at nothing, out of dirty windows!" "New York," laughed Dr. Barnhelm, "is the great market place of the world. You can buy anything here, even beautiful surroundings." "Then you, Martin, shall buy them. This," he touched the electrical apparatus almost tenderly, "will bring fame and wealth. Happiness you had before." "It has been selfish of me in a way, Paul," began the Doctor, as though trying to find excuses to satisfy his own conscience, "but Lola has not minded. She is as Helen was. If she is surrounded by love and tenderness, she is content. She does not ask fortune for many of her favors." "She does not need them, Martin." As Dr. Crossett spoke, from below, through the open window, came the harsh clang of an ambulance bell, and these two surgeons both stopped and listened, their professional instinct unconsciously aroused. "There is a sound, Martin," he continued, "that is understood in every country in the world." "The ambulance stopped here at this house," said Dr. Barnhelm, with a trace of nervousness, and he stepped to the window and looked out. "There is a crowd collecting. I wonder----" [Illustration: DOCTOR BARNHELM PERFECTS HIS MACHINE FOR RESTORING ANIMATION.] The door burst open, and John Dorris entered the room; as they saw his face, they knew at once that the news he brought was bad news, and both being brave men, they turned calmly and steadily to meet it. "Doctor," he panted hoarsely, "Lola--Lola!" "Well, John?" It was the father who spoke, and his cool, even tone did much to steady the boy. "She," he continued brokenly, "she--they--they are bringing her! There was an accident, she--she----" He stopped as Dick Fenway entered, so pale and wild, that Dr. Crossett, to whom he was a stranger, stepped forward, as though to offer to support him, but stopped suddenly as Fenway cried out: "I did it! It was my fault! As she crossed the Avenue I turned my car, thinking she would stop, but she hated me, and she wouldn't stop, and--and--I killed her." There was silence for a moment in the room, broken only by Fenway's sobs and by a low moan of anguish from the father. Then came a sound of stumbling footsteps, slowly, very slowly advancing up the stairs. The sound of men carrying a heavy burden. "My friend! Be brave!" and Paul Crossett put his arm about his old friend's shoulders. "We will fight for her life, you and I together, as life is not often fought for." The footsteps had grown nearer, in the room there was silence as the four men waited, in the court-yard below a street organ began to play, and the foolish, empty tune burned itself forever into their memories as they stood there.