“As what, Luke?” she asked eagerly, for there seemed to her at that moment to be a new note in his voice. If, after all, he was beginning to love her, if by any chance that passion which she felt for him was about to be responded to, then good-by to all else, good-by to the child’s future, good-by to everything but the prize which she had set herself to win. To win Luke Tarbot’s heart she would not care to what crime she stooped. Now she came a little nearer to him, and laid one of her thin but shapely hands on his arm. “You are very tired, and you ought to rest,” she said. “I am tired,” he replied, “dead tired, worn out. A night like this takes a lot out of a man. Clara, you look well.” “I am glad you think so. I have put on no jewels because you dislike them. I take great pains with my dress these days.” “You do, my poor girl.” “For your sake, Luke.” “It is useless, Clara,” he said, but he uttered the words sadly, and still there was that new puzzled expression in his eyes, and, notwithstanding his words, she did not think that her pains were quite thrown away. Having finished his tea, Tarbot was refreshed. He stood up. He did not mind talking to Clara in the garish morning light. “I shall be an old man before my time,” he said abruptly. “I am a disappointed, a bitterly disappointed man. I only live for one thing now. When that is over my career will be ended.” Clara made no reply, but her gray eyes were still fixed upon him. “And until it is over I shall have no rest,” he continued. “There is a fever here.” He laid his hand against his heart. “If you will go to your room you can have two or three hours of perfect quiet,” said Clara. “Lay your head on your pillow, and you will drop asleep immediately.” “I wish I could take your advice, but I am the victim of insomnia; it has only come on lately. I did not like to tell you of it. I would give the world at this present moment for a couple of hours’ refreshing slumber.” “Let me make some passes across your forehead—I know exactly how. You will soon sleep if I do so.” “You mean that you want to mesmerize me?” “Not exactly to mesmerize you, Luke—not to go as far as that. It would require a stronger woman than I am to mesmerize a man like you.” He smiled at her—his slow, inscrutable smile. “But I can put you to sleep. Let me try. Just stay quiet, and don’t resist me. Let yourself go. In ten minutes you will be asleep.” “Can you limit the duration of my sleep?” he asked. “Yes, you shall sleep for an hour, two hours, three hours. How long can you give yourself?” “What o’clock is it now?” “Six o’clock.” “I can sleep until nine, I believe. Will you promise to wake me at nine o’clock?” “You shall wake yourself. I need not be present. I will simply suggest to you that you sleep for three hours, and at nine you will wake. You may rest assured that things will happen exactly as I wish.”