“I wish,” the boy added, “you would go in and see what you can do for Mr. Conover. I’m afraid he has lost his mind. I looked into the room several times and--” He shuddered at the picture conjured up. His nerves had gone to pieces. “It was terrible,” he went on. “I didn’t dare interrupt him. He was crouching there, holding her close to him and looking at her as if he’d drag her spirit by main force back into her body. And all the time he was saying over and over--” “I will go up,” said the specialist, cutting in on the narrative. “Even if the local physician did not complete a full examination to make sure she was dead, such insane treatment would destroy any chance of life. Show me the way.” Together they entered the sick room. Conover had not stirred. Through the closed door they had heard the hoarse rumble of his eternal command:-- “_Dey! Come back!_” Dr. Colfax walked briskly across to the bed. “Here!” he said, addressing Caleb in the sharp tones used for arousing the delirious. “This won’t do! You must--” He paused; his first idle glance at Desirée’s pale face changing in a flash to one of keen professional interest. He caught one of her wrists, at the point where it was engulfed in Caleb’s great hand; held it for an instant; then, turning, flung open his black medical case. Jack, who had lingered at the door, hurried forward on tiptoe. “You don’t mean--?” he whispered quaveringly. “The local physician was mistaken,” returned Dr. Colfax in the same key. “Or she--” he hesitated. “I have heard of such cases,” he murmured, in wonder. “But I only know of two that are authentic. It is more probable that she was merely in a collapse. I can inquire later.” While he talked, he had been selecting and filling a hypodermic needle. Now, stepping past Conover, who had not noted the newcomers’ presence, he pressed the needle-point into Desirée’s forearm. “You really think then--?” cried Jack. “I think it is worth a fight!” snapped the doctor. “Go down and see if my nurse has come. I left her at the station. She could not walk as fast as I. Go out quietly. This man doesn’t even know we are here, but I don’t want to take any chance just yet of breaking his ‘influence.’ Time enough for that when the digitalis begins to act.” * * * * * Caleb Conover stretched himself and sat up. He felt oddly weak and depressed. For the first time in his life he was tired out. For twenty hours he had slept. The afternoon sun was pouring in at the windows. Caleb glanced stupidly about him and recognized the anteroom leading off from the sick chamber. Vaguely at first, then more clearly, he recalled that someone--ever and ever so long ago--had shaken him by the shoulder and had repeated over and over in his ears “_She is alive!_”