The two were cold and rigid.
“An overdose of heroin this time,” muttered Kennedy.
My head was in a whirl.
Hazleton stared blankly at the two figures abjectly lying before him, as the truth burned itself indelibly into his soul. He covered his face with his hands. And still he saw it all.
Craig said nothing. He was content to let what he had shown work in the man’s mind.
“For the sake of—that baby—would she—would she forgive?” asked Hazleton, turning desperately toward Kennedy.
Deliberately Kennedy faced him, not as scientist and millionaire, but as man and man.
“From my psychanalysis,” he said slowly, “I should say that it IS within your power, in time, to change those dreams.”
Hazleton grasped Kennedy’s hand before he knew it.
“Kennedy—home—quick. This is the first manful impulse I have had for two years. And, Jameson—you’ll tone down that part of it in the newspapers that Junior—might read—when he grows up?”