"Go—away? Go—out to sea?" cried Donaldson.
"Yes. To-morrow morning."
"Why, Lord, man! Lord, man!" he panted, "I—would n't leave New York—I would n't go out there—for—for a million dollars."
"You damned ass!" growled Barstow.
"I—I would n't—go, if the royal yacht—of the King of England were waiting for me."
"Some one ought to have the authority to put you in a strait-jacket and carry you off. I tell you you 're headed for the madhouse, Don!"
Donaldson staggered to his feet. He put his trembling hands on Barstow's shoulders.
"No," he faltered, "no, I 'm headed for life, for life, Barstow! You hear me? I 'm headed for a paradise right here in New York."
Barstow felt baffled. The man was in as bad a way as he had ever seen a man, but he realized the uselessness of combatting that stubborn will. There was nothing to do but let him go on until he was struck down helpless. From the bottom of his heart be pitied him. This was the result of too much brooding alone.
"Peter," he said, "the loneliest place in this world is New York. Are you going to let it kill you?"