Field again addressed Gard, whose admission seemed to have exhausted him.  “And the son—­knows nothing?”

“Nothing,” answered Gard.  “He worships his father’s memory.  He is engaged, also, to—­a very dear little friend of mine—­the child of an old colleague.  I want to shield them—­both.”

“I understand.”  He nodded his head slowly, lost in thought.

The woman, childishly interested in the grotesque inkwells on the table, stepped forward and raised one curiously.  Her bony hands, of almost transparent thinness, seemed hardly able to sustain the weight of the cast bronze.  It was hard to believe such a birdlike claw capable of delivering a stunning blow, or forcibly wielding the deadly knife.  She babbled for a moment in a gentle, not unpleasant voice, while they watched her, fascinated.

“She’s that way most of the time,” said the nurse softly.  “Just like a ten-year-old girl—­plays with dolls, sir, all day long.”

Suddenly her expression changed.  Over her smiling wrinkles crept the whiteness of death.  Her eyes seemed to start from her head, her lips drew back, while her fingers tightened convulsively on the metal inkstand.  The nurse, with an exclamation, stepped forward and caught her.

There was a gleam of such maniacal fury in the woman’s face that Mr. Field shuddered.  “Hardly a safe child to trust even with a doll,” he said.  “I fancy the recital has excited her.  Hadn’t you better take her away and keep her quiet?  And don’t let anyone unauthorized by Mr. Gard or myself have access to her.  It will not be wise to allow her delusion that she was the wife of Victor Mahr to become known—­you understand?”

Mr. Gard rose stiffly.  “I will assume the expense of her care in future.  Let her have every comfort your institution affords, Dr. Malky.  I will see you to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”  The physician bowed.  “Good night.  Come, Mrs. Welles.”

Obediently the withered little woman turned and suffered herself to be led away.

As the door closed, Field came forward and grasped Gard’s hand warmly.  “It is necessary for the general good,” he said, his kindly face grown grave, “that this matter be kept as quiet as possible.  Believe me, I understand, old friend; and, as always, I admire you.”

Gard’s weary face relaxed its strain.  “Thanks,” he said hoarsely.  “We can safely trust the press to Brencherly.  He,” and he smiled wanly, “deserves great credit for his work.  I’m thinking, Field, I need that young man in my business.”

Field nodded.  “I was thinking I needed him in mine; but yours is the prior claim.  And now I’m off.  Mr. Brencherly, can I set you down anywhere?”

Confusedly the young man accepted the offer, hesitated and blushed as he held out his hand.  “May I?”

Gard read the good-will in his face, the congratulation in the tone, and grasped the extended hand with a warm feeling of friendly regard.