speak to me. Get me home as soon as you can."

He leaned back, closed his eyes and concentrated all his energies. In
the first place, Denning was right--he must not desert, even with his
own disaster close upon him. He owed his public his life, if necessary.
As a king must go to the defense of his people in spite of every private
grief or necessity, so he must go now. The very form of his decision
surprised him. He realized that his yearning for another soul's
awakening had awakened his own soul. He had willed her a conscience and
developed one himself. But, his decision reached with that sudden
precision characteristic of him, his anxious fears demanded that every
possible precaution be taken, every effort made that could tend to save
or relieve the desperate situation he must leave behind him. First of
all his physician--to him he must speak the truth, and to him alone.
Brencherly should be his active tool. Mahr must be impressed.

Springing from the motor at his own door, he snapped an order to his
butler, and sent him with the cab to bring the doctor instantly. Once in
the library, he telephoned for the detective. He then called up Victor
Mahr, requested that however late he might call, a visitor be admitted
at once, on a matter of the first importance and received the assurance
that his wishes would be complied with; he asked Denning, who had
followed him, to wait in another room, thrust back the papers on his
table and settled himself to write.

"No one knows anything," he scrawled, "neither Dorothy nor anyone else."
With succinct directness he covered the whole story--explained,
elucidated. Through every word the golden thread of his deep devotion
glowed steadily. Would the letter ever reach her? Would her eyes ever
see the reassuring lines? He refused to believe his efforts useless. She
must come. He sealed and directed the letter, as Brencherly was
admitted. Gard turned and eyed the young man sharply, wondering how
much, how little he dared tell him.

"Brencherly," he said slowly, "I'm giving you the biggest commission of
your life. You've got to take my place here, for I'm going to the front.
I've got to rely on you, and if you fail me, well, you know me--that's
enough. Now, I want discretion first, last and all the time. Then I want
foresight, tact, genius--everything in you that can think and plan. Here
are the facts: Mrs. Marteen has come back--suddenly. She's been ill. Her
mind, from all I can learn, is