"But he's a little bit incoherent on earth," she rejoined, with a smile. "What has really happened?"
Sypher drew a long breath and pulled himself up.
"I'm on the verge of a collapse. The Cure hasn't paid for the last two years. I hoped against hope. I flung thousands and thousands into the concern. The Jebusa Jones people and others out-advertised me, out-manœuvered me at every turn. Now every bit of capital is gone, and I can't raise any more. I must go under."
Zora began, "I have a fairly large fortune—"
He checked her with a gesture, and looked at her clear and full.
"God bless you," he said. "My heart didn't lie to me at Monte Carlo when it told me that you were a great-souled woman. Tell me. Have you ever believed in the Cure in the sense that I believed in it?"
Zora returned his gaze. Here was no rhodomontading. The man was grappling with realities.
"No," she replied simply.
"Neither do I any longer," said Sypher. "There is no difference between it and any quack ointment you can buy at the first chemist's shop. That is why, even if I saw a chance of putting the concern on its legs again, I couldn't use your money. That is why I asked you, just now, what you have thought of me—a madman or a quack?"
"Doesn't the mere fact of my being here show you what I thought of you?"