--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.

"Good-night--and, thank you both," he said.

* * * * *

XVII

Spring had come. The silvery air was soft with promises of leaf and bud.
Invitation to Festival and Adventure was in the gold-flecked sunlight.
Nature stood on tiptoe, ready for carnival, waiting for the opening
measures of the ecstatic music of life's renewal.

The remote stillness of the great library had given place to the faint
sounds of the vernal world. A robin preened himself at an open casement,
cast a calculating eye at the priceless art treasures of the place,
scorned them as useless for his needs, and fluttered away to an antique
marble bench in the walled garden, wherefrom he might watch for worms,
or hop to the Greek sarcophagus and take a bath in accumulated
rainwater.

Marcus Gard, outwardly his determined, unbending self again, sat before
his laden table, slave as ever to his tasks. Nine strokes chimed from
the Gothic clock in the hall; already his busy day had begun.

Denning entered unannounced, as was his special privilege, and stood for
a moment in silence, looking at his friend. Gard acknowledged his
presence with a cordial nod, and continued to glance over and sign the
typ