arliest left the Pennsylvania
Terminal at eleven. It was now but five. How could he wait?

"Pietro," he said, "give me now Doctor Barrington's office. And tell
the operator to put me through to his private wire. It's urgent. I do
not want the nurse in the anteroom. When you ring for me I want Dr.
Barrington ready at the other end and I want you yourself, Pietro, to
be sure he's there."

Pietro, obeyed, amazed and loyal.

"Frank?" Hot relief surged in Kenny's heart at the chance ease of
connection. "Kenny speaking."

"Hello, Kenny. Nothing doing for me tonight, old man. I've got to
sleep."

"I need you, Frank. Brian has been injured--badly--in a quarry
explosion."

"Kenny!"

"A chance of skull fracture," said Kenny steadily. "That means?"

"A possible operation."

"Can you leave with me at eleven o'clock to-night, Pennsylvania
Terminal? It will mean at least two days. He's at Finlake,
Pennsylvania, barely conscious--in the hands of a country doctor."

The brilliant industrious young surgeon on the other end gasped and
whistled. He worked and played at heavy pressure.

"Kenny, old man," he said, "nothing is impossible. Almost this is.
But it's you and Brian and that's enough, I'll meet you at quarter of
eleven. I'll go--thoroughly prepared. Do you feel like telling me
more?"

"No."

Two receivers clicked and Kenny, remembering that he could not
definitely locate Joan until six, felt the tautness of his control slip
dangerously.

Eleven o'clock. . . . How could he wait? He paced the floor, his mind
in its chaotic desperation, numb and inelastic. With his glance upon
the psaltery stick, a dim notion of accounting filtered curiously into
his mind and became obsessional. He went shaking to Brian's room and
put the key of the chiffonier in his pocket. Thank God the studio was
in order, save a chair or two. Brian . . . would . . . be . . .
pleased. Kenny stared at the withered fern and blinked. An augury?
God forbid! Then he flung the bill-file with its heterogeneous
collection of receipted I.O.U.'s into his bulging suit case and called
up Simon Meyer.

"Simon," he said, "whatever I happen to have there--there's a shotgun,
I know, and a tennis racket and some fishing rods. . . . The rest for
the moment I can't recall. . . . I want you to put all of it in a
bundle and send it here at once by special messenger. I have the
tickets here. . . . I'll have them ready. . . . Yes, I