“We’ll have to take our medicine,” Mr. Heidlemann replied, without heat.  “We cannot afford another mistake.”

“This is definite?”

“Oh, absolutely!  We’re going slow for a time.”

A blow in the face could not have affected O’Neil more disagreeably than this statement.  Fortune had seemed within his grasp when he entered the room; now ruin was more imminent than it had ever been before.  The ground seemed to be slipping from beneath his feet; he discovered that he was dizzy.  He felt himself utterly incapable of raising the two million dollars necessary to carry his road to a point where the Trust would consider a purchase, yet to fail meant the loss of all he had put in.  He knew also that these men would never recede from a position once taken.

“Hasn’t this public clamor had something to do with your determination?” he asked.

“A great deal.  We had the best intentions when we started—­we still have—­but it’s time to let the general sentiment cool.  We thought we were doing a fine thing for the country in opening Alaska, but it seems we’re regarded as thieves and grafters.  One gets tired of abuse after a while.”

“Will you take an option on the S. R. can’t help you, O’Neil, but rest assured we won’t do anything to hinder you.  You have treated us fairly; we will reciprocate.  Once you have built your bridge we can discuss a purchase and the abandonment of our original enterprise, but meanwhile we must proceed cautiously.  It is unfortunate for us all.”

“Especially for me.”

“You need money badly, don’t you?”

“I’m worse than broke,” O’Neil admitted.

“I’d really be sorry to take over the wreck of your enterprise,” Heidlemann said, earnestly, “for you have made a good fight, and your ideas were better than ours.  I’d much prefer to pay your price than to profit by your misfortune.  Needless to say we don’t feel that way about Gordon.”

“There would be no uncertainty about the bridge if I had the money.  With your means I could build a road to the moon, and double-track it.”

Although Murray felt that further effort was useless, he continued to argue the matter from various angles, hoping against hope to sway Heidlemann’s decision.  But he gave up at last.  Out in the marble hall which led to the elevators he discovered that all his vigor of an hour ago had passed.  The spring was out of his limbs; he walked slowly, like an old man.  A glimpse of his image in the mirrors of the car as he shot downward showed him a face grave and haggard.  The crowds jostled him, but he was hardly conscious of them.  The knowledge that his hardest fight was yet to come filled him with sickening apprehension.  He was like a runner who toes the mark for a final heat knowing himself to be upon the verge of collapse.