Gard turned suddenly, ordered his taxi to follow and got in beside Denning.  His mood and voice were changed.  “I’ve got to think.  Don’t 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 affected.  She has delusions; she may have suicidal mania.  She has disappeared, and she must be found—­as secretly as possible.  Her delusions and illness must not become a newspaper headline.  I needn’t tell you it would make ‘a story.’  There’s one chance in fifty that she may come here, or telephone for me.  You are not to leave this room.  Answer that telephone—­you