Tired, heavy at heart, his earlier conquest of the night sodden and overshadowed now, he turned away from the cell and its optimistic occupant,--out into the night.
It was only a short walk to the hospital and Fairchild went there, to leave with at least a ray of hope.

The probing operation had been completed; the fiddler would live, and at least the charge against Harry would not be one of murder.

That was a thing for which to be thankful; but there was plenty to cause consternation, as Fairchild walked slowly down the dark, winding street toward the main thoroughfare.

Without Harry, Fairchild now felt himself lost.

Before the big, genial, eccentric Cornishman had come into his life, he had believed, with some sort of divine ignorance, that he could carry out his ambitions by himself, with no knowledge of the technical details necessary to mining, with no previous history of the Blue Poppy to guide him, and with no help against the enemies who seemed everywhere.
Now he saw that it was impossible.