He opened his eyes. The devil in the bottle directly in front of him was more impish than it had been at all. Donaldson rose. The pup rolled to the floor. Donaldson crossed the room, picked out the bottle, drew back his arm, and hurled it against the wall, where it broke into a thousand pieces. It left a gory-looking blotch where it struck. He went back to the sofa. The dog crept to his side again.

Before him a devil danced in a purple bottle. He closed his eyes.

He would begin his letter, then, like that. He would go on to tell her that he was unable to compute his life save in terms of her, that it had its beginning in her, grew to its fulness through her, and now had reached its zenith in her. At the brook when he had clasped her in his arms, he had drunk one deep draught of her.

He lost himself in one hot love phrase after another. He poured out his soul in words he had left unspoken to her. He was back again before the fire, telling her all that he did not tell her then. One gorgeous image after another swarmed to his brain. He was like a poet gone mad. He crowded sentence upon sentence, superlative upon superlative, until he found himself upon his feet, his cheeks hot, and his breath coming short. Then he caught sight of the crimson stain upon the wall and felt himself a murderer. He staggered back and threw himself full-length upon the couch, panting like one at the end of a long run. He lay here very quietly.

The dog crawled to his side and licked the hair at his hot temple.

CHAPTER XXVI

_On the Brink_

Donaldson was aroused by the dog which was at the door barking excitedly. It was broad daylight. As Donaldson sprang up he heard the brisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a key fumbling in the lock. Before he had fully recovered his senses the door swung open, and Barstow, tanned and ruddy, burst in. Donaldson stared at him and he stared at Donaldson. Then, striding over the dog, who yelped in protest at this treatment, Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven man who faced him.

"Good Heavens, Peter!" he cried, "what ails you?"

Donaldson put out his hand and the other grasped it with the clasp of a man in perfect health.

"Can't you speak?" he demanded. "What's the matter with you?"

"I 'm glad to see you," answered Donaldson.

"But what are you doing here in this condition? Are you sick?"

"No, I 'm not sick. I lay down on the sofa and I guess I fell asleep."

"You look as though you had been sleeping there a month. Sit down, man. You have a fever."

"There 's your dog," said Donaldson.

Barstow turned. The dog, with his forefeet on Barstow's knee, was stretching his neck towards his master's hand.

"h.e.l.lo, pup," he greeted him. "Did the janitor use you all right?" He shook him off.

Donaldson sat down. Barstow stood in front of him a moment and then reached to feel his pulse. It was normal.

"I 'm not sick, I tell you," said Donaldson, trying to laugh, "I was just all in. I came up here to see if you were back and slumped down on the couch. Then I fell asleep. There 's your dog behind you."

"What of it?" demanded Barstow.

"Why--he looks glad to see you."

"What of that?"

"Nothing."

Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson's shoulder.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked.

"Drinking? No, but I've a thirst a mile long. Any water around here?"

Barstow went to the closet and came back with a graduating gla.s.s full of lukewarm water. Donaldson swallowed it in a couple of gulps.

"Lord, that's good!"

Barstow again bent a perplexed gaze upon him.

"You have n't been fooling with any sort of dope, Peter?"

"No."

"This is straight?"

"Yes, that's straight," answered Donaldson impatiently. "I tell you that there is n't anything wrong with me except that I 'm f.a.gged out."

"You did n't take my advice. You ought to have gone away. Why did n't you?"

"I 've been too busy. There's your dog."

Barstow hung down his hand, that the pup might lick the ends of his fingers.

"Peter," he burst out, "you ought to have been with me. If I 'd known about the trip I 'd have taken you. It was just what you needed--a week of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowing over your face. That's what you want to do--get out under the blue sky and soak it in. If you don't believe it, look at me. Fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose. You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine,--why the devil don't you take a week off and do it?"

"Perhaps I will."

"That's the stuff. You must do it. You were in bad shape when I left, but, man dear, you 're on the verge of a serious breakdown now. Do you realize it?"

"Yes, I realize it. That 's a good dog of yours, Barstow."

"What's the matter with the pup? Seems to me you 're taking a deuce of a lot of interest in him," he returned suspiciously.

"Dogs seem sort of human when you 're alone with them."

"This one looks more human than you do. See here, Don, Lindsey said that he might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to Newport.

I think I can get you a berth with him. Will you go?"

"It's good of you, Barstow," answered Donaldson uneasily, "but I don't like to promise."

Would Barstow never call the dog by name? He could n't ask him directly; it would throw too much suspicion upon himself. If Barstow had left his laboratory that night for his trip, the chances were that the bottle was not yet missed. He must be cautious. It would be taking an unfair advantage of Barstow's friendship to allow him to feel that indirectly he had been responsible for the death of a human being.

Donaldson glanced at his watch.

It had stopped.

"What time is it?" he asked.