Overhead the stars now shone free of cloud, in the darkness of space. San Francisco was like a pincushion, stuck with sparks of light. She crossed to the port side of the boat, and saw Goat Island, a blotch of shadow, with its lighthouse, off the bow. It grew rapidly nearer and nearer. It fascinated her. When it was directly opposite, a few hundred yards away, she clenched her teeth and muttered to herself: "Well, there’s nothing in the race but the finish! This is where _I_ get off!" Clambering to the top of the rail, she took a long, deep breath, then flung herself headlong into the bay, and the waters closed over her. *CHAPTER XX* *MASTERSON’S MANOEUVRES* Francis Granthope ran up the two flights of stairs like a boy, and pounded at Masterson’s door. The doctor appeared, with his celluloid collar in one hand and a half-eaten orange in the other. He was coatless and unshorn, although his office hours, "from nine till four" had already begun. He looked at Granthope, took another bite of his orange, and then, his mouth being too full for clear articulation, pointed inside to a chair by the fireplace under the shelves full of bottles. Granthope dumped a pile of newspapers from the chair and sat down. The sun never came into the room, and the place was, as usual, chill, dim and dusty. A handful of fire fought for life upon the hearth. Behind a fringed portière, which was stretched across the back of the room, the doctor’s cot was seen, dirty and unkempt. Masterson finished the last of his orange with a gulp, went to a bowl in the corner where a skull was perched on a shelf, and washed his hands. After he had wiped them and rubbed a blotch of juice from the front of his plaid flannel waistcoat, he put on his coat and sat down by the fire. "Well, I must say you’re quite a stranger. How’s things, Frank?" he said casually. "So-so," was the reply. "I’ve given up my business." "So I hear. What’s the matter? Sold out?" asked Masterson. "Oh, no, I just threw it all up and left." "That’s funny. I should have thought you could have got something for the good-will. What you going to do now?" "Nothing. I didn’t come here to talk about myself, Masterson, I came to talk about you." "Well, well, that’s kind of you," said the healer, buttoning on his collar. "That’s what you might call friendly. You didn’t use to be so much interested when you was wearing your Prince Albert. What makes you so anxious, all of a sudden?" Granthope smiled good-naturedly, and poked at the fire till it blazed up. "See here," he said. "I can show you how to make some money easily." "That sounds interesting. I certainly ain’t in business for my health. Fire it off. I’m listening." "There’s no use beating about the bush with you. And I’m a man of my word. Isn’t that so?" "I never heard it gainsaid," said Masterson. "I’ll trust you, and you can trust me as equally."