on his own leave of absence.  The policeman had already gone through Peter’s pockets to get money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, taking possession of Peter’s keys.  He opened the door and, putting him into a deep chair in the study, laid the purse and keys on Peter’s desk, writing on a scrap of paper with much difficulty:  “mr. stirling $2.50 I took to pay the carriage.  John Motty policeman 22 precinct,” he laid it beside the keys and purse.  Then he went back to his beat.

And what was Peter doing all this time?  Just what he now did.  He tried to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in it.  Presently he rose, and began to pace the floor, but he kept stumbling over the desk and chairs.  As he stumbled he thought, sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud:  “If I could only think!  I can’t see.  What was it Dr. Pilcere said about her eyes?  Or was it my eyes?  Did he give me some medicine?  I can’t remember.  And it wouldn’t help her.  Why can’t I think?  What is this pain in her head and eyes?  Why does everything look so dark, except when those pains go through her head?  They feel like flashes of lightning, and then I can see.  Why can’t I think?  Her eyes get in the way.  He gave me something to put on them.  But I can’t give it to her.  She told me to go away.  To stop this agony!  How she suffers.  It’s getting worse every moment.  I can’t remember about the medicine.  There it comes again.  Now I know.  It’s not lightning.  It’s the petroleum!  Be quick, boys.  Can’t you hear my darling scream?  It’s terrible.  If I could only think.  What was it the French doctor said to do, if it came back?  No.  We want to get some rails.”  Peter dashed himself against a window.  “Once more, men, together.  Can’t you hear her scream?  Break down the door!” Peter caught up and hurled a pot of flowers at the window, and the glass shattered and fell to the floor and street “If I could see.  But it’s all dark.  Are those lights?  No.  It’s too late.  I can’t save her from it.”

So he wandered physically and mentally.  Wandered till sounds of martial music came up through the broken window.  “Fall in,” cried Peter.  “The Anarchists are after her.  It’s dynamite, not lightning.  Podds, Don’t let them hurt her.  Save her.  Oh! save her I Why can’t I get to her?  Don’t try to hold me,” he cried, as he came in contact with a chair.  He caught it up and hurled it across the room, so that it crashed into the picture-frames, smashing chair and frames into fragments.  “I can’t be the one to throw it,” he cried, in an agonized voice.  “She’s all I have.  For years I’ve been so lonely.  Don’t I can’t throw it.  It kills me to see her suffer.  It wouldn’t be so horrible if I hadn’t done it myself.  If I didn’t love her so.  But to blow her up myself.  I can’t.  Men, will you stand by me, and help me to save her?”

The band of music stopped.  A moment’s silence fell and then up from the street, came the air of:  “Marching through Georgia,” five thousand voices singing: