"I called him Sandy. Control yourself, Don. If you let yourself go this way—it's the end."
"The end?" shouted Donaldson. "Man, it 's the beginning! It's just the beginning! Sandy—Sandy did n't die after all!"
"Oh, that's what's troubling you," returned Barstow with an air of relief. "Why did n't you tell me? You thought the dead had risen, eh? No, the stuff didn't work. The dog only had an attack of acute indigestion from overeating. But Gad, the coincidence was queer, when you stop to think of it. I 'd forgotten you left before he came to."
"Then," cried Donaldson excitedly, "you did n't have any poison after all!"
"No. I was so busy on more important work that my experiments with that stuff must all of them have been slipshod. But it did look for a minute as though Sandy here had proven it. But, Lord,—it was n't the poison that did for him—it was his week. His week was too much for him!"
"Give me your hand, Barstow. Give me your hand. I 'm limp as a rag."
"That's your nerves again. If you were normal, the mere fact that you thought you saw a spook dog would n't leave you in this shape. Come over here and sit down."
"Get me some water, old man—get me a long, long drink."
When Barstow handed him the glass, which must have held a pint, Donaldson trembled so that he could hold it to his lips only by using both hands, as those with palsy do. He swallowed it in great gulps. He felt as though he were burning up inside. The room began to swim around him, but with his hands kneading into the old sofa he warded off unconsciousness. He must not lose a single minute in blankness. He must get back to her—get back to her as soon as he could stand. She was suffering, too, though in another way. He must not let another burning minute scorch her.
"Perhaps you 'll take my advice now," Barstow was saying, "perhaps you were near enough the brink that time to listen to me. Tell me I may ring up Lindsey—tell me now that you 'll go with him."