“Don’t bother me,” snarled Conover, shifting his big body to move out of reach of the appealing hand. “What--what d’ye s’pose can be the matter with her? She was all right yesterday noon. Train leaves in four minutes, an’--” Caine broke in on the Fighter’s speech with a final plea for sanity. He had an almost uncanny feeling at his own proximity to this demoralized hulk of what had until now been the strongest man of his world. He did not know the shaking, muttering, putty-faced being who in a trice had tossed away both their hopes of fortune. Yet Caine would not yield. “If you’ll only stay just long enough for the Starke bill to be voted on,” he implored. “You can have a Special to take you back. Or, call up her doctor on the long-distance telephone before you start, and find out if her illness is really dangerous. Perhaps her aunt--” “She’s callin’ for me,” reiterated Caleb, in the same dead tones. “I thought about the long-distance ’phone. But there’s no time for that before the 9.32 starts. I--Good! Here’s the station! An’ two minutes to spare.” Out of the carriage he jumped and made off at a shambling run for the tracks; Caine close at his heels. At the car platform the Fighter turned; scribbled a few lines on a card and handed it to Caine. “Here,” he ordered with a ghost of his old authority. “Have that telegram sent off in a rush. It’ll clear up the tracks for me when we strike the C. G. & X. line, an’ let us in a half-hour earlier. Do as I say. Don’t bother me! I’ve no time to fool with the measly Steeloid deal now.” * * * * * For an hour and a half Caleb Conover stared with unseeing, glazed eyes at the gray skies and rain-rotted fields as his train sped toward Granite. He had a curious numbness in his head. A dumb nausea gripped him. For the first time in his life, he could not think consecutively. All his mind and body seemed to centre around one hideous truth: Desirée Shevlin was terribly ill. Perhaps dying. She wanted him. And he was not there. He had never known until now that he had an imagination. Yet, during the century-long train ride, the pressure on his brain lifted a bit from time to time and he could see the dainty, dark little head turning endlessly from side to side on its tumbled hot pillow; the white face whence the glow and life had been stricken; the delirium hoarse voice calling--ever calling--for _him_. She had been so bright, so happy, so strong--only the day before. She had gone driving with him after church. She had been telling him about a country visit she was going to make--to-day--yes, she was to have started to-day. This noon. And on the same drive--what was it she had worn? It had gone prettily with her eyes, whatever it was. Those eyes of hers had such odd, wonderful little lights in them. What color were they? And what was it Caine had told her they held--oh, yes--‘prisoned laughter.’ That was a queer sort of phrase. But she had seemed to like it.