“I beg your pardon,” said Peter. “Come,” said the policeman shaking him, “where do you belong? My God! It’s Mr. Stirling. Why, sir. What’s the matter?” “I think I’ve killed her,” said Peter. “He’s awfully screwed,” ejaculated the policeman. “And him of all men! Nobody shall know.” He hailed a passing cab, and put Peter into it. Then he gave Peter’s office address, and also got in. He was fined the next day for being off his beat “without adequate reasons,” but he never told where he had been. When they reached the building, he helped Peter into the elevator. From there he helped him to his door. He rang the bell, but no answer came. It was past office-hours, and Jenifer having been told that Peter would dine up-town, had departed on his own leave of absence. The policeman had already gone through Peter’s pockets to get money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, taking possession of Peter’s keys. He opened the door and, putting him into a deep chair in the study, laid the purse and keys on Peter’s desk, writing on a scrap of paper with much difficulty: “mr. stirling $2.50 I took to pay the carriage. John Motty policeman 22 precinct,” he laid it beside the keys and purse. Then he went back to his beat. And what was Peter doing all this time? Just what he now did. He tried to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in it. Presently he rose, and began to pace the floor, but he kept stumbling over the desk and chairs. As he stumbled he thought, sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud: “If I could only think! I can’t see. What was it Dr. Pilcere said about her eyes? Or was it my eyes? Did he give me some medicine? I can’t remember. And it wouldn’t help her. Why can’t I think? What is this pain in her head and eyes? Why does everything look so dark, except when those pains go through her head? They feel like flashes of lightning, and then I can see. Why can’t I think? Her eyes get in the way. He gave me something to put on them. But I can’t give it to her. She told me to go away. To stop this agony! How she suffers. It’s getting worse every moment. I can’t remember about the medicine. There it comes again. Now I know. It’s not lightning. It’s the petroleum! Be quick, boys. Can’t you hear my darling scream? It’s terrible. If I could only think. What was it the French doctor said to do, if it came back? No. We want to get some rails.” Peter dashed himself against a window. “Once more, men, together. Can’t you hear her scream? Break down the door!” Peter caught up and hurled a pot of flowers at the window, and the glass shattered and fell to the floor and street “If I could see. But it’s all dark. Are those lights? No. It’s too late. I can’t save her from it.”