“You can’t fool me.  You think the opposite of what you say....  Lane, your heart is breaking.”

“No, Doctor.  It broke long ago.”

“You believe so, but it didn’t.  You can’t give up....  Lane, I want to tell you something.  I’m a prohibitionist myself, and I respect the law.  But there are rare cases where whiskey will effect a cure.  I say that as a physician.  And I am convinced now that your case is one where whiskey might give you a fighting chance.”

“Doctor!  What’re you saying?” ejaculated Lane, wide-eyed with incredulity.

Doctor Bronson enlarged upon and emphasized his statement.

“I might live!” whispered Lane.  “My God!...  But that is ridiculous.  I’m shot to pieces.  I’m really tired of living.  And I certainly wouldn’t become a drunkard to save my life.”

At this juncture the osteopath entered, putting an end to that intimate conversation.  Doctor Bronson explained the case to his colleague.  And fifteen minutes later Lane’s body was again straight.  Also he was wringing wet with cold sweat and quivering in every muscle.

“Gentlemen—­your cure is—­worse than—­the disease,” he panted.

Manifestly Doctor Branson’s interest in Lane had advanced beyond the professional.  His tone was one of friendship when he said, “Boy, it beats hell what you can stand.  I don’t know about you.  Stop your worry now.  Isn’t there something you care for?”

“Yes,” replied Lane.

“Think of that, or it, or her, then to the exclusion of all else.  And give nature a chance.”

“Doctor, I can’t control my thoughts.”

“A fellow like you can do anything,” snapped Bronson.  “There are such men, now and then.  Human nature is strange and manifold.  All great men do not have statues erected in their honor.  Most of them are unknown, unsung....  Lane, you could do anything—­do you hear me?—­anything.”

Lane felt surprise at the force and passion of the practical little physician.  But he was not greatly impressed.  And he was glad when the two men went away.  He felt the insidious approach of one of his states of depression—­the black mood—­the hopeless despair—­the hell on earth.  This spell had not visited him often of late, and now manifestly meant to make up for that forbearance.  Lane put forth his intelligence, his courage, his spirit—­all in vain.  The onslaught of gloom and anguish was irresistible.  Then thought of Mel Iden sustained him—­held back this madness for the moment.

Every hour he lived made her dearer, yet farther away.  It was the unattainableness of her, the impossibility of a fruition of love that slowly and surely removed her.  On the other hand, the image of her sweet face, of her form, of her beauty, of her movements—­every recall of these physical things enhanced her charm, and his love.  He had cherished a delusion that it was Mel Iden’s spirit alone, the wonderful