He rang, ordered the servant to stop the first taxi, seized his coat and hat, left a peremptory order to his physician not to be beyond call, tumbled into his outer garments and made for the street.  The taxi sputtered at the curb, but just as he dashed down the steps a limousine drew up, and Denning sprang from its opened door.  His hand fell heavily upon Gard’s shoulder as he stooped to enter the cab.  Gard turned, his overwrought nerves stinging with the shock of the other’s restraining touch.

Denning’s hand fell, for the face of his friend was distorted beyond recognition.  The words his lips had framed to speak died upon his tongue, as with a furious heave Gard shook him off, entered the cab and slammed the door.  Denning stood for a moment surprised into inaction, then, with an order to follow, he leaped into his own car and started in pursuit.

When Gard reached the familiar entrance, his anxiety had grown, like physical pain, almost to the point where human endurance ceases and becomes brute suffering.  He felt cornered and helpless.  At the door of Mrs. Marteen’s apartment a sort of unreasoning rage filled him.  To ring; the bell seemed a futility; he wanted to break in the painted glass and batter down the door.  The calm expression of the butler who answered his summons was like a personal insult.  Were they all mad that they did not realize?

“Where is Mrs. Marteen?” he demanded hoarsely.

The servant shook his head.  “She left two hours ago, at least,” he answered, with a glance toward the hall clock.

“What did she say—­what message did she leave?” Gard pushed by him impatiently, making for the stairs leading to the upper floor and the library.

The butler stared.  “Why, nothing, sir.  She asked for Miss Dorothy, and when none of us could tell her where she went, or why—­which we all thought queer enough, sir—­she didn’t seem surprised; so I suppose she knows, sir.  Madam just went upstairs to the library first, and then to Miss Dorothy’s room—­the maid saw her, sir—­and then she came down and went out.  She had on a heavy veil, but she looked scarce fit to stand for all that, and she went—­never said a word about her baggage or anything—­just went out to the cab that was waiting.  Then about a half hour later, Mary, her maid, came in with the boxes.  I hope there’s nothing wrong, sir?”

Gard listened, his heart tightening with apprehension.  “Call White Plains, 56,” he ordered sharply.  “Tell Miss Dorothy to come at once and then send for me, quick, now!” he commanded; and as the wondering flunky turned toward the telephone, he sprang up the stairs, threw open the library door and entered.  The electric lights were blazing in the heat and silence of the closed room.  The odor of violets hung reminiscent in the stale air.  The panel by the mantelpiece was thrust back, and the door of the safe, so uselessly concealed, hung open, revealing the empty shelves within and the deep shadow of the inner compartment.  He saw it all in a flash of understanding; the frantic woman’s rush to the place of concealment,—­the ravaged hiding place.  What could she argue, but that all that her enemy had planned had befallen?  Her child knew all, and had gone—­fled from her and the horror of her life, leaving no sign of forgiveness or pity.