“I have written to my father and mother,” she said, “about the securities.”

“Have you?” he said grimly.

“Yes.  And, Louis, I forgot to tell you that Mr. Cuyp telephoned me yesterday assuring me that everything had been transferred and recorded and that my father could use everything in an emergency—­if it comes as you thought possible....  And I—­I wish to say”—­she went on in a curiously constrained voice—­“that I appreciate what you have done—­what you so willingly gave up—­”

An odd smile hovered on Malcourt’s lips: 

“Nonsense,” he said.  “One couldn’t give up what one never had and never wanted....  And you say that it was all available yesterday?”

“Available!”

“At the order of Cardross, Carrick & Co.?”

“Mr. Cuyp said so.”

“You made over all those checks to them?”

“Yes.  Mr. Cuyp took them away.”

“And that Lexington Avenue stuff?”

“Deeded and recorded.”

“The bonds?”

“Everything is father’s again.”

“Was it yesterday?”

“Yes.  Why?”

“You are absolutely certain?”

“Mr. Cuyp said so.”

Malcourt slowly rolled a cigarette and held it, unlighted, in his nervous fingers.  Young Mrs. Malcourt watched him, but her mind was on other things.

Presently he rose, and she looked up as though startled painfully from her abstraction.

“You ought to turn in,” he said quietly.  “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He went out and started to descend the stairs; but somebody was banging at the lower door, entering clumsily, and in haste.

“Louis!” panted Portlaw, “they say Hamil is dying—­”

“Damn you,” whispered Malcourt fiercely, “will you shut your cursed mouth!”

Then slowly he turned, leaden-footed, head hanging, and ascended the stairs once more to the room where his wife had been.  She was standing there, pale as a corpse, struggling into a heavy coat.

“Did you—­hear?”

“Yes.”

He aided her with her coat.

“Do you think you had better go over?”

“Yes, I must go.”

She was trembling so that he could scarcely get her into the coat.

“Probably,” he said, “Portlaw doesn’t know what he’s talking about.... 
Shiela, do you want me to go with you—­”

“No—­no!  Oh, hurry—­”

She was crying now; he saw that she was breaking down.

“Wait till I find your shoes.  You can’t go that way.  Wait a moment—­”

“No—­no!”

He followed her to the stairs, but: 

“No—­no!” she sobbed, pushing him back; “I want him to myself.  Can’t they let me have him even when he is dying?”

“You can’t go!” he said.

She turned on him quivering, beside herself.

“Not in this condition—­for your own sake,” he repeated steadily.  And again he said:  “For the sake of your name in the years to come, Shiela, you cannot go to him like this.  Control yourself.”