Harber nodded.

“Well, so should I have, if the cursed fever had let me alone.  In another year or so I’d have been raking in the coin.  And now here I am—­busted—­done—­;—­fini, as the French say.  I burned the candle at both ends—­and got just what was coming to me, I suppose.  But how could I let go, just when everything was coming my way?”

“I know,” said Harber.  “But unless you can use it——­”

“You’re right there.  Not much in it for me now.  Still, the medicos say a cold winter back home will....  I don’t know.  Sometimes I don’t think I’ll last to....

“Where’s the use, you ask, Harber?  You ask me right now, and I can’t tell you.  But if you’d asked me before I got like this, I could have told you quick enough.  With some men, I suppose, it’s just an acquisitive nature.  With me, that didn’t cut any figure.  With me, it was a girl.  I wanted to make the most I could for her in the shortest time.  A girl ... well....”

Harber nodded.  “I understand.  I came out for precisely the same reason myself,” he remarked.

“You did?” said Barton, looking at him sadly.  “Well, luck was with you, then.  You look so—­so damned fit!  You can go back to her ... while I ... ain’t it hell?  Ain’t it?” he demanded fiercely.  “Yes,” admitted Harber, “it is.  But at the same time, I’m not sure that anything’s ever really lost.  If she’s worth while——­”

Barton made a vehement sign of affirmation.

“Why, she’ll be terribly sorry for you, but she won’t care,” concluded Harber.  “I mean, she’ll be waiting for you, and glad to have you coming home, so glad that....”

“Ah ... yes.  That’s what ...  I haven’t mentioned the fever in writing to her, you see.  It will be a shock.”

Harber, looking at him, thought that it would, indeed.

“I had a letter from her just before we sailed,” went on the other, more cheerfully.  “I’d like awfully, some time, to have you meet her.  She’s a wonderful girl—­wonderful.  She’s clever.  She’s much cleverer than I am, really ... about most things.  When we get to Victoria, you must let me give you my address.”

“Thanks,” said Harber.  “I’ll be glad to have it.”

That was the last Harber saw of him for five days.  The weather had turned rough, and he supposed the poor fellow was seasick, and thought of him sympathetically, but let it rest there.  Then, one evening after dinner, the steward came for him and said that Mr. Clay Barton wanted to see him.  Harber followed to Barton’s stateroom, which the sick man was occupying alone.  In the passageway near the door, he met the ship’s doctor.

“Mr. Harber?” said the doctor.  “Your friend in there—­I’m sorry to say—­is——­”

“I suspected as much,” said Harber.  “He knows it himself, I think.”

“Does he?” said the doctor, obviously relieved.  “Well, I hope that he’ll live till we get him ashore.  There’s just a chance, of course, though his fever is very high now.  He’s quite lucid just now, and has been insisting upon seeing you.  Later he mayn’t be conscious.  So——­”