Starke looked in his face keenly.
"For what? How?"
"This engine--have you nothing to care for in life but that?"
"Nothing,--nothing but that and what it will gain me."
There was a pause.
"If it fails?"
The dark blood dyed the man's face and throat; he choked, waited a
moment before he spoke.
"It would not hurt me. No. I'm nearly tired out, Sir. I hardly look for
success."
"Will you try again?"
"No, I'll not try again."
He had drawn away and stood by the window, his face hidden by the
curtain. The Doctor was baffled.
"You have yourself lost faith in your invention?"
Something of the old fierceness flashed into the man's eye, but died
out.
"No matter," he said under his breath, shaking his head, and putting his
hand in a feeble way to his mouth.
"Inanition of soul as well as body," thought the Doctor. "I'll rouse
him, cruel or not."
"Have you anything to which to turn, if this disappoints you? Home or
friends?"
He waited for an answer. When it came, he felt like an intruder, the man
was so quiet, far-off.
"I have nothing,--no friends,--unless I count that boy in the next room.
Eh? He has fragments of the old knightly spirit, if his brain be
cracked.
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