“What’s that?” he asked, still smiling.

“The curtain on the last act,” she said.  “The getaway.”

Doc Madison shook his head.

“Nothing doing!” he returned.  “There’s no getaway.  It’s safe—­so safe that there’s nothing to it.  We don’t guarantee anything, and there’s no entrance fee to the pavilion—­all contributions are strictly voluntary.”

“That’s all right,” said Helena.  “But of course we can’t really cure them.  We can get them going hard enough to make them think they are for awhile, but after they’ve thrown away their crutches and got back home—­what then?”

“Well, what then?” inquired Doc Madison easily.

“They’ll yell ‘fake!’ and swear out warrants,” said Helena, her dark eyes studying Doc Madison.

“Not according to statistics,” replied Doc Madison, and his lips twitched quizzically at the corners.  “According to statistics they’ll buy another crutch and come back to buck the tiger again.  Say, Helena, to-morrow, you go up to the public library and read up on shrines—­they’ve been running since the ark—­and they’re running still.  You never heard any howl about them, did you?  What’s the answer to those cures?”

“That’s different,” said Helena.  “That’s religion, and they’ve got relics and things.”

“It’s faith,” said Doc Madison, “and it doesn’t matter what the basis of it is.  Faith, Helena, faith—­get that?  And we’re going to imbue them with a faith that’ll set them crazy and send them into hysterics.  And talk about relics!  Haven’t we got one?  Look at the Patriarch!  Can’t you see the whole town yelling ‘I told you so!’ and swopping testimonials hard enough to crowd the print down so fine, if you tried to get it all into the papers, that you’d have to use a magnifying glass to read it, once we’ve pulled off the miracle?  Don’t you worry about the getaway.  If there’s any sign of anything like that, you and I, Helena, will be taking moonlight rides in the gondolas of Venice long before it breaks.”

Helena choked—­and began to laugh deliciously.

Doc Madison stared at her for a moment whimsically—­then he, too, burst into a laugh.

“Oh, Lord!” he gurgled.  “It’s rich, isn’t it?” And sweeping Helena off the couch and into his arms, he began to dance around and around the table.  “Ring-around-a-rosy!” he cried.  “We haven’t done so bad in the misty past, but here’s where we cross to the enchanted shore and play on jewelled harps with golden strings and—­”

“Is that all?” gasped Helena, laughing and breathless, as at last she pulled herself away.

“No,” panted Doc Madison.  “There’s a table I’ve reserved up at the Rivoli that’s waiting for us now.  We’re about to part for days and days, lady mine, that’s the tough luck of it, but we’ll make a night of it to-night anyway—­what?”

“You bet!” said Helena, doing a cake-walk towards the door.  “Come on!”

—­III—­