“I know,” he returned; “that is a part of her—­of her special training:  first aid to the injured, and all that.  They teach it in the German sociological schools she attended last year.”

“Oh, yes; I see”—­with a malicious little smile to accentuate the curving downdroop of the pretty eyelids.  “You mean that she was just getting a bit of practice.  I wondered why she was so willing; most young women are so silly about the sight of a little blood.  Don’t you think you’d better try to sleep for a while?  Doctor Dillon said it would be good for you if you could.”

“Heavens and earth!” he chanted impatiently; “I’m not sick!” And then, with a sharp fear stabbing him:  “What day is this, please?”

She looked up with a smile.  “Are you wondering if you have lost a day?  You haven’t.  The fire was at three o’clock this morning, and this is Saturday.”

As if the naming of the day had been a spell to strike him dumb, Blount shut his eyes and groped helplessly for some hand-hold upon the suddenly rehabilitated responsibilities.  Saturday—­the day when Gryson would return with the proofs which, if they were to serve any good end, must be given the widest possible publicity in the two days remaining before the election.  Blount recalled his carefully laid plans:  he had intended giving Collins and the two record clerks a half-holiday, so that Gryson might come and go unnoticed.  Also, he had meant to make a definite appointment with Blenkinsop and the representative of the United Press, to the end that there might be no delay in the firing of the mine.  Lastly, Gryson must be shielded and gotten out of the city in safety; so much the traitor had a right to demand if he should risk his liberty and his life by returning with the evidence.

It was a hideous tangle to owe itself to the joyous gambollings of the firemen’s mascot dog.  And there was more to it than the hopeless smashing of the Saturday’s plans.  Into the midst of the mordant reflections, and adding a sting which was all its own, came the thought of this newest obligation laid upon him by his father and his father’s wife.  They had taken him in and were loading him down with kinsman gifts of care and loving-kindness, while his purpose had been—­must still be—­to strike back like a merciless enemy.  He remembered the old fable of the adder warmed to life in a man’s bosom, and it left him sick and nerveless.

None the less, the obsession of the indomitable purpose persisted, gripping him like the compelling hand of a giant in whose grasp he was powerless.  For a time he sought to escape, not realizing that the obsession was the call of the blood passed on from the men of his race who, with axe and rifle, had hewn and fought their way in the primeval wilderness, and would not be denied.  Neither did he suspect that the dominating passion driving him on was his best gift from the man against whom he was pitting his strength.  What he did presently realize was that the giant grip of purpose was not to be broken; and thereupon a vast cunning came to possess him.  He must have time and a chance to plan again:  if he should feign sleep, perhaps the woman whose presence and personality were shackling the inventive thought would go away and leave him free to think.