The doctor, his rage tempered by the memory of the iron fingers on his windpipe, glared at the madman in angry irresolution. Caleb’s muscles tightened ominously. The physician recoiled a step in most unprofessional haste. “You are a dangerous maniac!” he said somewhat unsteadily, “and you shall go to prison for this outrageous assault. For the present, I shall remain on the case. Not because of your threats, but from common humanity toward--” “Toward yourself,” finished Caleb, satisfied that he had won his point. “An’ just to make sure, I’ll lock the outer door of this suite an’ pocket the key. Now go back to your patient!” * * * * * Outside, there was glaring, heartless sunshine. In the sick room stood Caleb and Jack, one on either side of the bed over which the doctor was bending. With closed eyes, Desirée Shevlin rested where Conover had laid her. For hours she had lain thus. “I can do no more,” pronounced the doctor, rising and meeting Caleb’s glazed eye. “The end may come now at any moment.” The Fighter, his every faculty drowned in the horrible egotism of grief, made no answer. “If only there were someone to pray!” muttered Jack, battling to keep back the tears. “I wish Mr. Grant was--” “Pray?” echoed Caleb, rousing himself and clutching at the faint hope. “It can’t do any harm. Pray, man! _Pray!_” “I--I _can’t_!” babbled the boy. “I don’t know how. I never prayed in my life. I--” “Try it!” groaned Caleb. “_Try_ it, I say! You may have beginner’s luck!” “No use!” interposed the doctor. “It’s over.” As he spoke, Desirée stirred ever so slightly. Her closed eyes opened. She seemed to settle lower in the bed. Then she lay very still. With a sobbing cry Jack Hawarden rushed from the room. Conover stood, dumb, petrified, staring wildly down into the unseeing, all-seeing eyes. CHAPTER XXIV THE LAST FIGHT Under the concentrated anguish of Conover’s gaze the girl’s long lashes seemed to flicker ever so slightly. Through the Gethsemane of the moment the impossible fancy that she lived pierced Caleb’s numbed brain; tearing away the apathy that was closing over him. All at once he was again the Fighter,--the man who could not know defeat. “She is alive!” he persisted as the physician turned from the bed. “Look! She--” Dr. Bond’s bearded lip curled in a sad derision that woke Caleb’s smouldering antagonism into flame. With a sudden insane impulse the Fighter knelt on the edge of the bed and caught up the pitifully still little hands. “_Dey!_” he cried, his great rough voice echoing through the dreadful hush of the room. Bond opened his mouth to protest; then shrank back to the wall, staring in heavy wonder. “_Dey!_” called the Fighter again, an agony of command in his tone. “Dey! _Come back!_”