What could he be doing upstairs all this while.  She had not heard him for many minutes now.  Why was he so still?

She straightened up at her desk and glanced uneasily across her shoulder, listening.

Not a sound from above; she rose and walked to the foot of the stairs.

Why was he so still?  Had he found Clarence?  Had anything gone wrong?  Had Clarence become suddenly rabid and attacked him.  Cats can’t annihilate big, strong young men.  But where was he?  Had he, pursuing his quest, emerged through the scuttle on to the roof—­and—­and—­fallen off?

Scarcely knowing what she did she mounted on tiptoe to the second floor, listening.  The silence troubled her; she went from room to room, opening doors and clothespresses.  Then she mounted to the third floor, searching more quickly.  On the fourth floor she called to him in a voice not quite steady.  There was no reply.

Alarmed now, she hurriedly flung open doors everywhere, then, picking up her rose-silk skirts, she ran to the top floor and called tremulously.

A faint sound answered; bewildered, she turned to the first closet at hand, and her cheeks suddenly blanched as she sprang to the door of the cedar press and tore it wide open.

He was lying on his face amid a heap of rolled rugs, clothes hangers and furs, quite motionless.

She knew enough to run into the servants’ rooms, fling open the windows and, with all the strength in her young body, drag the inanimate youth across the floor and into the fresh air.

“O-h!” she said, and said it only once.  Then, ashy of lip and cheek, she took hold of Brown and, lashing her memory to help her in the emergency, performed for that inanimate gentleman the rudiments of an exercise which, if done properly, is supposed to induce artificial respiration.

It certainly induced something resembling it in Brown.  After a while he made unlovely and inarticulate sounds; after a while the sounds became articulate.  He said:  “Betty!” several times, more or less distinctly.  He opened one eye, then the other; then his hands closed on the hands that were holding his wrists; he looked up at her from where he lay on the floor.  She, crouched beside him, eyes still dilated with the awful fear of death, looked back, breathless, trembling.

“That is a devil of a place, that closet,” he said faintly.

She tried to smile, tried wearily to free her hands, watched them, dazed, being drawn toward him, drawn tight against his lips—­felt his lips on them.

Then, without warning, an incredible thrill shot through her to the heart, stilling it—­silencing pulse and breath—­nay, thought itself.  She heard him speaking; his words came to her like distant sounds in a dream: 

“I cared for you.  You give me life—­and I adore you....  Let me.  It will not harm you.  The problem of life is solved for me; I have solved it; but unless some day you will prove it for me—­Betty—­the problem of life is but a sorry sum—­a total of ciphers without end....  No other two people in all the world could be what we are and what we have been to each other.  No other two people could dare to face what we dare face.”  He paused:  “Dare we, Betty?”