The Seventh Noon Part 49

"You 'd expect a man to be battered up a little, would n't you, after a hard fight? I 've fought the hardest thing in the world there is to fight--shadows, Barstow, shadows--with the King Shadow itself at their head."

Was the man raving? It sounded so, but Donaldson's eyes, in spite of their heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they had been a moment ago. The startled look had left his face. Every feature stood out brightly, as though lighted from within. His voice was fuller, and his language, though obscure, more like that of the old Donaldson.

Barstow was mystified.

"Had n't you better lie down here again?" he suggested.

"I must go, now. What--what time is it, old man?"

"Five minutes past ten."

Donaldson took a deep breath. Time--how it stretched before him like a flower-strewn path without end. He heard the friendly tick-tock at his wrists. The minutes were so many jewel boxes, each containing the choice gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into her eyes, so many chances to fulfil duties, so many quaffs of life.

"My watch has run down," he said, with curious seriousness. "I 'm going to wind it up again. I 'm going to wind it up again, Barstow."

He proceeded to do this as though engaged in some mystic rite.

"May I set it by your watch? I 'd like to set it by your watch, Barstow."

He adjusted the hands tenderly, again as though it were the act of a high priest.

"Now," he said, "it's going straight. I shall never let the old thing run down again. I think it hurts a watch, don't you, Barstow?"

"Yes," answered the latter, amazed at his emphasis upon such trivialities.

"Now," he said, "I must hurry. Where's my hat? Oh, there it is. And Sandy--where's Sandy?"

The dog crawled out at once at the sound of his name, and he stooped to pet him a moment.

"I don't suppose you 'd sell Sandy, would you, Barstow?"

"I 'll give him to you, if you 'll take him off. I have n't a fit place to keep him."

"May I take him now? May I take him with me?"

"Yes--if you'll come back to me to-morrow and report how you are."

"I 'll do it. I 'll be here to-morrow."

He cuddled the dog into his arm and held out his hand.

"Don't worry about me, old man. Just a little rattled that's all. But fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose, even if I don't look it as you do!"

Barstow took his hand, and when Donaldson left, stood at the head of the stairs anxiously watching him make his way to the street, hugging the dog tightly to his side.

CHAPTER XXVII

_The End of the Beginning_

When Donaldson appeared at the door of the Arsdale house he was confronted by Ben whose eyes were afire as though he had been drinking.

Before he could speak a word the latter squared off before him aggressively.

"What the devil have you done to my sister?" he demanded.

Donaldson drew back, frightened by the question.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, the dog dropping from his arms to the floor.

"She 's in bed, and half out of her mind," returned the other fiercely.

"She said you 'd gone! Donaldson, if you 've hurt her--"

The boy's fists were clenched as though he were about to strike.

Donaldson stood with his arms hanging limply by his side. He felt Arsdale's right to strike if he wished.

"I have n't gone," he answered.

"I don't know what has happened," Arsdale ran on heatedly, "but I want to tell you this--that as much as you 've done for me, I won't stand for your hurting her."

"Let me see her," demanded Donaldson, coming to himself.

"She won't see any one! She 's locked up in her room. She may be dead. If she is, you 've killed her!"

Arsdale half choked upon the words. It was with difficulty that he restrained himself. He was blind to everything, save that in some way this man was responsible for the girl's suffering.

"Perhaps she 'll see me. Where is she?"

Donaldson without waiting for an answer pushed past Arsdale and the latter allowed it, but followed at his heels. Donaldson knew where she was without being told. She was in the big front room where the balcony led outdoors. He went up the stairs heavily, for he knew that more depended on the next half hour than had anything so far in all this harrowing week. Though there was plenty of light he groped his way close to the wall like a blind man. At the closed door he paused to catch his breath. In the meanwhile the boy, half frantic, pounded on the panels, shouting over his shoulder,

"She won't let us in, I tell you! She won't let us in! She may be dead!"

At this, Donaldson forced Arsdale back. He put his mouth close to the insensate wood and called her name.

"Elaine."

There was no answer.

He knocked lightly and called again. Again the silence, the boy stumbling up against him with an inarticulate cry. The nurse joined them, and the three stood there in shivering terror. Donaldson felt panic clutching at his own heart. Before throwing his weight against the door, he tried once more.

"Elaine," he cried, "it is I--Donaldson."

There was the sound of movement within, and then came the stricken plea,

"Go away. Please go away."

Arsdale answered,

"Let me in, Elaine. Nothing shall hurt you. I'll--"