Sick, and faint, Gard turned away.  One door in the corridor stood open, left so, he divined, by the hurried passing of the mother from the empty nest, Dorothy’s room, all pink and white and girlish in its simplicity.  One fragrant pillow, with its dainty embroidered cover, was dented, as if still warm from the burning cheek that had pressed it in an agony of loss.  Nothing about the chamber was displaced; only an empty photograph frame lying upon the dressing table told of the trembling, pale hands that had bereft it of its jewel.  She had taken her little girl’s picture with the heartbroken conviction that never again would she see its original, or that those girlish eyes would look upon her again save in fear and loathing.  The empty case dropped from his hands to the silver-crowded, lace-covered table; he was startled to see in the mirror, hung with its frivolous load of cotillion favors and dance cards, his own face convulsed with grief, and turned, appalled, from his own image.  His resourceful brain refused its functions.  He could not guess her movements after that silent, definitive leave taking.  He could but picture her tall, erect figure, outwardly composed and nonchalant, as she must have stood, facing the outer world, looking out to what—­to what?  A mad hope rose in his breast.  Would she turn to him?  Would her instinctive steps lead her to seek his protection.

Yes.  He must be where she could find him; he must be within reach.  It could not be that she would pass thus silently into some unknown life—­or—­ He would not concede the other possibility.

Turning blindly from the room, he descended to the lower floor, where the butler, with difficulty suppressing his curiosity, informed him that Miss Dorothy had answered that she would return to town at once.

Gard hesitated, then turned sharply upon the servant.  “Your mistress has been ill, as you know.  We have reason to believe that she is not quite herself.  If you learn anything of her, notify me at once.  No matter what orders she may give, you understand, or no matter how slight the clew—­send for me.”

Once again in the street, he paused, uncertain.  His eye fell upon Denning’s limousine drawn up behind his waiting cab.  Fury at this espionage sent him toward it.  Thrusting his face In at the open window, he glared at his pursuer.

“What are you here for?” he snarled.

Denning looked at him coldly.  “To see that you keep faith, that’s all.  Your personal concerns must wait.  Have you forgotten that you are to take the midnight train to Washington?  I’m here to see that you do it.”

Gard wrenched open the door of the car.  “You are, are you?  Let the whole damned thing go!” he cried.  “Send your proxies.  This is a matter of life and death!”

“I know it,” said Denning; “it is—­to a lot of people who trust you; and you are going to do your duty if I have to kidnap you to do it.  You have two hours before your train leaves.  My private car is waiting for you.  Make what plans you like till then; but I’ll not leave you; neither will Langley—­he’s following you, too.  Come, buck up.  Are you mad that you desert in the face of shipwreck?”