And I--I love in my own fashion." His low voice rang with the repressed undertone of excitement; he opened and closed his clinched hand as though controlling the lever of his emotions.
"What can you do for a man who loves the shadow of Life ?" he asked.
"If you love the shadow because the substance has passed away--if you love the soul because the dust has returned to the earth as it was--" "It has _not_!" said the younger man.
The Tracer said very gravely: "It is written that whenever 'the Silver Cord' is loosed, 'then shall the dust return unto the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto Him who gave it.'" "The spirit--yes; _that_ has taken its splendid flight--" His voice choked up, died out; he strove to speak again, but could not.
The Tracer let him alone, and bent again over his desk, drawing imaginary circles on the stained blotter, while moment after moment passed under the tension of that fiercest of all struggles, when a man sits throttling his own soul into silence.
And, after a long time, Burke lifted a haggard face from the cradle of his crossed arms and shook his shoulders, drawing a deep, steady breath.
"Listen to _me_!" he said in an altered voice.
And the Tracer of Lost Persons nodded..