“Have you such pride as that?”

“Precisely.”

“So much that you cannot face failure?”

“Not when attached to my name.  You can see how I feel about that by the secrecy I have worked under.  No other person living knows what I have just communicated to you.  Every part shipped here came from different manufacturing firms; sometimes a part of a part was all I allowed to be made in any one place.  My fame, like my ship, must rise with one bound into the air, or it must never rise at all.  It was not made for petty accomplishment, or the slow plodding of commonplace minds.  I must startle, or remain obscure.  That is why I chose this place for my venture, and you for my helper and associate.”

“You want me to ascend with you?”

“Exactly.”

“At the end of three days?”

“Yes.”

“Orlando, I cannot.”

“You cannot?  Not strong enough yet?  I’ll wait then,—­three days more.”

“The time’s too short.  A month is scarcely sufficient.  It would be folly, such as you never show, to trust a nerve so undermined as mine till time has restored its power.  For an enterprise like this you need a man of ready strength and resources; not one whose condition you might be obliged to consider at a very critical moment.”

Orlando, balked thus at the outset, showed his displeasure.

“You do not do justice to your will.  It is strong enough to carry you through anything.”

“It was.”

“You can force it to act for you.”

“I fear not, Orlando.”

“I counted on you and you thwart me at the most critical moment of my life.”

Oswald smiled; his whole candid and generous nature bursting into view, in one quick flash.

“Perhaps,” he assented; “but you will thank me when you realise my weakness.  Another man must be found—­quick, deft, secret, yet honourably alive to the importance of the occasion and your rights as a great original thinker and mechanician.”

“Do you know such a man?”

“I don’t; but there must be many such among our workmen.”

“There isn’t one; and I haven’t time to send to Brooklyn.  I reckoned on you.”

“Can you wait a month?”

“No.”

“A fortnight, then?”

“No, not ten days.”

Oswald looked surprised.  He would like to have asked why such precipitation was necessary, but their tone in which this ultimatum was given was of that decisive character which admits of no argument.  He, therefore, merely looked his query.  But Orlando was not one to answer looks; besides, he had no reply for the same importunate question urged by his own good sense.  He knew that he must make the attempt upon which his future rested soon, and without risk of the sapping influence of lengthened suspense and weeks of waiting.  He could hold on to those two demons leagued in attack against him, for a definite seven days, but not for an indeterminate time.  If he were to be saved from folly,—­from himself—­events must rush.