The doctor nodded in understanding, as the girl appeared, her face drawn by emotion.

“Oh, poor mother!” she gasped.  “She seemed—­so—­I don’t know why—­grateful—­to me—­thanked me for coming to her—­thanked me, Dr. Balys, as if I wasn’t longing every minute to be with her!  She is not quite over her delirium yet, do you think?”

Balys smiled.  “Of course she is grateful to see you.  Your mother has been very close to the Great Divide, and she, more than any of us, realizes it.  Now,” he said, turning to Gard, “go in and make your little speech; and, mind you, say your word and go.  No conversation with my patient.”

Gard stood up, excitement gripping him.  He was to see her eyes again, open and understanding.  He was to hear her voice in coherent tones once more!  The realization of this wonder thrilled him.  He went to her presence as some saint of old went to the altar, where, in a dream, the vision of miracle had been promised him.  All the pain and torture of the past seemed nothing in the light of this one thing—­that she was herself again, to meet him hand to hand and eye to eye.  He entered the quiet room and crossed its dimly lighted spaciousness to the bed.  The nurse rose tactfully and busied herself among the bottles on the distant dresser.

At last, after the ordeal that they had gone through, in the lonely, hollow torture chamber of the heart, they met, and knew.  With a sigh of understanding, she moved her waxen fingers, and, comprehending her gesture, he took her hand and held it, striving to impart to her weakness something of his own vigor.  For a moment they remained thus.  Then into her eyes, where at first great repose had shone, there came a gleam of questioning.  He leaned close above her to catch her whispered words.

“She doesn’t know?”

“No,” he answered.  “Dorothy came to me with his letter.  I got everything from the safe, and I sent her away so no further messages might reach her.  Now do you see?”

She looked up at him.

Again he took her hand in his and strove to give it life, as a transfusion of blood is given through the veins.

There was silence for a moment.  Then her white lips framed a request.

“Bring them—­all the things from the inner safe—­bring them to-morrow to me.”  Her eyes turned toward the fire that glowed on the hearth.

He comprehended her intention.

“To-morrow,” he murmured, and, turning, softly left the room.  With a few words to Dorothy he hurried from the house.

Instinctively he turned to seek the sanctuary of his library, but paused ere he gave the order to his chauffeur.  No, before he could call the day complete, there was something else to do.  He gave the address of the house on Washington Square.  The mansion, as the limousine drew up before it, looked dark, almost deserted.  He mounted the steps slowly, his mind crowded with memories—­with what burning hatred in his