eemed as if hours drifted by before I saw you all come running up
towards me--"

"Come, come," said Panton, a trifle impatiently. "As a matter of fact
it can't have been more than three minutes. Still, it was long enough
for the girl to go as near the Great Divide, as a friend of mine calls
it, as I've ever known a human being go."

"I suppose," said Varick slowly, "that if you hadn't been there Bubbles
would now be dead?"

"Well, yes, I'm afraid that's true," said the doctor simply. "I should
have expected that clever, intelligent Miss Farrow, to say nothing of
Miss Brabazon, to know something about First Aid. But neither of them
know anything! The only person who was of the slightest use was young
Donnington; and I suspect--" he smiled broadly.

"What do you suspect?" asked Varick rather quickly.

"Well, I suspect that he's in love with Miss Bubbles."

"Of course he is." Varick's contemptuous tone jarred a little on Panton.
"But Bubbles intends to become Mrs. Tapster."

"I should be sorry to think that!"

"Why sorry? The modern young woman--and Bubbles is a very modern young
woman--knows the value of money," said Varick dryly.

He waited a moment. "I'll leave you now, Panton, and I'll see that the
dinner-bell isn't rung till you're quite ready."

"All right. I won't be ten minutes--"

But Varick lingered by the door. "Panton," he exclaimed, "you've been a
good friend to me! I want to tell you that I shall never forget it. As
long as there's breath in my body I shall be grateful to you."

As the doctor dressed he told himself again that Varick had never
really recovered from the strain of his wife's long illness. Under that
rather exceptionally calm, steadfast-looking exterior, the man was
extraordinarily sensitive. How upset, for instance, Varick had been
about Miss Pigchalke's crazy advertisement. He, Panton, had felt quite
sorry that he had said anything about it.

While putting on his tie, he told himself that what the dear fellow
wanted now was a good, sensible second wife. And then, as he formulated
that thought to himself, the young man--for he was still quite a young
man--stopped what he was doing, and rubbed his hands joyfully. Why, of
course! What a fool he had been never to think of it before--though to
be sure it would really have been almost indecent to have thought of it
before. Helen Brabazon? The very woman for Lionel Varick! Such a
marriage would be the making of his highly-strung, fine-