"I'm sure you'll be able to convert him, if anyone can," said May soothingly. "I must," said Quisante briefly, and sat down to his papers again. For an hour or two he worked steadily, without a pause, without an apparent hesitation. That fine machine of his was ploughing its straight unfaltering way through details previously unfamiliar and through problems which he had never studied. From five to seven she sat with a book in her hands, feigning to read, really watching her husband. He could not fail, she said to herself; he would make the Alethea Printing Press a success, irrespective of the actual merits of it. Was that possible? It seemed almost possible as she looked at him. "It's bound to go," he said at last, pushing away the papers. "I'm primed now, and I can convince old Maturin in half an hour." He held up the Professor's report. "He must withdraw this and give us another." Alas, there are things before which even will and energy and brains must bow. As he spoke the servant came in, bringing the _Evening Standard_. May took it, glanced at the middle page, and then, with a little start, looked across at her husband. He saw her glance. "Any news?" he asked. "The Professor can't be convinced," she said. "His illness took a sudden turn for the worse last night and he died this afternoon at three o'clock." Quisante sat quite still for a few minutes, the dead Professor's report on the Alethea Printing Press still in his fingers. "What'll you do now?" she asked, with the smile of curiosity which she always had ready for his plans. Would he pursue the Professor beyond Charon's stream? He hesitated a little, glancing at her rather uneasily. At last he spoke. "One thing at all events is clear to me," he said. "This thing doesn't represent a reasoned and well-informed opinion." He folded it up carefully and placed it by itself in a long envelope. "We must consider our course," he ended. In a flash, by an instinct, May knew what their course would be and at whose dictation it would be followed. "Of course," said Quisante, "all this is strictly between ourselves." Her cheek flushed a little. "You mustn't tell me any more business secrets. I don't like them," said she, and she turned away to escape the quick, would-be covert glance that she knew he would direct at her. Money was necessary; votes had been necessary; old Foster smiled in fat shrewdness from the mantelpiece. May Quisante was less sure that she knew the worst. CHAPTER XV. A STRANGE IDEA.