ning--to the
source--where he could start fresh. It was here, and here alone, that
he could write his letter to her. Perhaps here he could make something
out of the chaos of his thoughts.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused before the closed
door. He did not expect Barstow to be in. He hoped that he was not.
He did not wish to face him to-day. To-morrow perhaps--but he realized
that if Barstow had gone on his proposed vacation he would not be back
even then. That did not matter either. The single thing remaining for
him to do was to make Elaine understand something of what his life had
meant, what she had meant in it, what he hoped to mean to her in the
silent future. That must be done alone, and this of all places was
where he could best do it. The mere thought of his room at the hotel
was repulsive to him.

He listened at the door. There was no sound--no sound save the
interminable "tick-tock, tick-tock" which still haunted him through the
pulse beats in his wrists. He reached forward and touched the knob;
listened again, and then turned it and pressed. The door was locked.
But it was a feeble affair. Barstow had made his experimental
laboratory in this old building to get away from the inquisitive, and
half of the time did not take the trouble to turn the key when he left,
for there was little of value here.

He knocked on the chance that Barstow might have lain down upon the
sofa for a nap. Again he waited until he heard the "tick-tock,
tick-tock" at his wrists. Then, pressing his body close to the lock,
he turned the knob and pushed steadily. It weakened. He drew back a
little and threw his weight more heavily against it. The lock gave and
the door swung open.

The sight of the threadbare sofa was as reassuring as the face of an
old friend. Yet what an eternity it seemed since he had sat there and
discussed his barren life with Barstow. The phrases he had used came
back to mock him. He had talked of the things that lay beyond his
reach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardy
enough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him,
with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he had
hungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking. Sailors have
died of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be the
open salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life.

He sat down on the sofa, with his head