‘Speak, girl, speak!’ said the Professor. His agitation was intense, and almost beyond control. Here—here to his hand was his chance. Was he to have it at last, or lose it for ever? Wyndham could stand it no longer; he went quickly forward, and, standing between the Professor and the girl, took the former by the shoulders and pushed him gently backwards and out of hearing. ‘If this drug of yours possesses the lifegiving properties you speak of,’ said he sternly, ‘why speak to her of death? Do you honestly believe in this experiment? Or do you fear it—when you suggest this sort of suicide to her?’ ‘I fear nothing,’ said the old man. ‘But we are all mortal. We can all err, even in our surest judgments. The very cleverest of us can be deceived. The experiment—though I do not believe it—might fail.’ At the word ‘fail’ he roused. ‘It will not! It cannot!’ he cried, with vehemence. ‘But in the meantime I would give her her chance, too. She shall know the worst that may befall her.’ ‘Why not tell her all?’ said the young man anxiously. ‘It’—he hesitated and coloured faintly—‘it would give her her chance perhaps in another world if your experiment failed. It would take from her—in part—the sin of deliberately destroying herself.’ The Professor shrugged his shoulders. He thought it waste of time, this preparing for another world—another Judge. ‘You think, then, that I should tell her?’ ‘I do. I think, too,’ said Wyndham strongly, ‘that if your experiment succeeds you should consider yourself indebted to her for ever.’ ‘I shall see to her future, of course.’ ‘If,’ said the young man gloomily, ‘anyone could see to the future of such a one as she is!’ The Professor looked at him. ‘You are out of sorts to-night,’ he said. ‘Your natural instinct is deadened in you. That girl does not belong to the class of which you are thinking. Whatever has driven her to her present desperate state of mind, it is not impurity.’ ‘You think that?’ Wyndham looked doubtful, but was still conscious of a faint wave of relief; and the Professor, watching him, smiled, the tolerant smile of one who understands the cranks and follies of poor human nature. ‘If so,’ said Wyndham quickly, ‘she should surely not be subjected to this experiment at all. She——’ ‘For all that, I shall not lose this chance,’ said the Professor shortly. He turned and went back to the girl. She was sitting in the same attitude as when he left her—her hands clenched upon her knees, her eyes staring into the fire. God alone knew what she saw there. She did not change her position, but sat like that, immovable as a statue, as the Professor expounded his experiment to her, and then asked her the cold, unsympathetic question as to whether, now she knew what the risk was, she would accept it. It might mean death, but if not, it would mean safety and protection in the future. When he had finished, she turned her sombre eyes on his. ‘I will take the risk,’ she said.