The Surgeon of Souls

BITTER was the storm-swept night, matching the bitterness in Harvey Bannister’s heart. He lowered his grim face to the lashing, pelting rain; and as he trudged forward, the knowledge of his financial crash was like the taste of gall and wormwood upon his twisted lips.

Through the tortuous mazes of his blurred mind, there penetrated one thought — a bulwark to which he clung desperately. Lola would understand, he told himself over and over again. Lola would comprehend; and in her sweet arms he would find solace, rest . . . Her kisses would erase all memory of failure . . .