iven were
events with which some other person was concerned, certainly not the
Lawrence Mannering of to-day. And yet he knew now that the battle which
he had fought was far from a final one. Her power over him was unchanged.
He was face to face once more with the old problem. His life was sworn to
the service of the people. He had crowded his days with thoughts and
deeds and plans for them. Almost every personal luxury and pleasure had
been abnegated. He had found a sort of fierce delight in the asceticism
of his daily life, in the unflinching firmness with which he had barred
the gates which might lead him into smoother and happier ways. To-night
he was beset with a sudden fear. He rose and looked at himself in the
glass. He was pale and wan. His face lacked the robust vitality of a few
years ago. He was ageing fast. He was conscious of certain disquieting
symptoms in the routine of his daily life. He threw himself back into the
chair with a little groan. The mockery of his life of ceaseless toil
seemed suddenly to spread itself out before him, a grim and unlovely
jest. What if his strength should go? What if all this labour and
self-denial should be in vain? He found himself growing giddy at the
thought.

He rang the bell and ordered wine. Then he went to the telephone and rang
up a doctor who lived near. Very soon, with coat and waistcoat off, he
was going through a somewhat prolonged examination. Afterwards the doctor
sat down opposite to him and accepted a cigar.

"What made you send for me this evening?" he asked, curiously.

Mannering hesitated.

"An impulse," he said. "To-morrrow I should have no time to come to
you. I wasn't feeling quite myself, and it is possible that I may be
undertaking some very important work before long."

"I shouldn't if I were you," the doctor remarked, quietly.

"The work is of such a nature," Mannering said, "that I could not refuse
it. It may not come, but if it does I must go through with it."

"I doubt whether you will succeed," the doctor said. "There is nothing
the matter with you except that you have been drawing on your reserve
stock of strength to such an extent that you are on the verge of a
collapse. The longer you stave it off the more complete it will be."

"You are a Job's comforter," Mannering remarked, with a smile. "Send me
some physic, and I will take things as easy as I can."

"I'll send you some," the doctor answered, "but it won't do you much
good. What