He looked straight, with his powerful hazel eyes slightly veiled by a contraction of the eyelids, into the steady gray eyes of his patient—­his patient—­he could not believe it yet.  He laid exploring fingers upon the pulse of the hand he had just grasped.

“If they were all like you,” he said gently, “we should have better chances for doing our best.  How do you manage it, Doctor?”

“Temperament, I suppose,” returned the other lightly.  “Or”—­and now he spoke less lightly—­“belief—­or lack of it.  If we get through—­very well; I shall go on with my work.  If we don’t get through—­that ends it.  I have no belief in any hereafter, as you may know.  A few years more or less—­what does it matter?”

Burns studied the finely chiselled face in silence for a minute, then he spoke slowly:  “It matters this much—­to me.  If by a chance, a slip, a lack of skill, I should put an end to a life which would never live again, I could not bear it.”

Van Horn smiled—­and somehow the smile was not frosty at all.  “I am trusting you.  Your hand won’t slip; there will be no lack of skill.  If you don’t pull me through, it will be because destiny is too much for us.  To be honest, I don’t care how it comes out.  And yet, that’s not quite true either.  I do care; only I want to be entirely well again.  I can’t go on as I have gone.”

“You shall not.  We’re going to win; I’m confident of it.  Only—­Doctor, if the unforeseen should happen I don’t want you to go out of this life believing there’s no other.  Listen.”  He pulled out a notebook and searching, found a small newspaper clipping.  “A big New York paper the other day printed this headline:  ‘Fell Eight Stories to Death.’  A smaller city paper copied it with this ironical comment:  ’Headlines cannot be too complete.  But what a great story it would have been if he had fallen eight stories to life!’ And then one of the biggest and most influential and respected newspapers in the world copied both headlines and comment and gave the whole thing a fresh title:  ’Falls to Life—­Immortal.’  Doctor—­you can’t afford to lie to-night where you do—­and take chances on that last thing’s not being true.  The greatest minds the world knows believe it is true.”

A silence fell.  Then Van Horn spoke:  “Burns, do you think it’s wise to turn a patient’s thoughts into this channel on the eve of a crisis?”

Burns regarded him closely.  “Can you tell me, Doctor,” he asked, “that your thoughts weren’t already in that channel?”

“Suppose they were.  And suppose I even admitted the possibility that you were right—­which, mind you, I don’t—­what use is it to argue the question at this late hour?”

“Because the hour is not too late.  If you want to sleep quietly to-night and wake fit for what’s coming, put yourself in the hands of the Maker of heaven and earth before you sleep.  Then, whether there’s a hereafter or not won’t matter for you; you’ll leave that to Him.  But you’ll be in His hands—­and that’s the only place it’s safe to be.”