Brencherly’s voice ceased, and Gard drew a sigh of relief.  At least there was no bad news, and as yet nothing in public print concerning the tragedy.  The discovery had probably been made early that morning by the servant, whose duty it was to care for the master’s private apartments.  The first afternoon papers would contain all the details, and perhaps the ticker would have the news before.  He realized that all the haggard night he had been fearing that the morning would bring him knowledge of Mrs. Marteen’s death—­drowned, asphyxiated, poisoned—­the many shapes of the one terrible deed had presented themselves to his subconscious mind, to be thrust away by his stubborn will.  Dorothy, summoned to the telephone, had nothing to add to Brencherly’s information, but seemed to derive comfort and consolation from Gard’s assurances that all would be well.  She would call him again at noon, she said.

He came from the booth almost glad.  His step was light, his troubled eyes clear once more.  He was ready to play his part in every sense, grateful for the respite from his pain.  His confidence in himself returned, and he went to the trying and momentous meetings of the morning with his gigantic mental grasp and convincing methods at their best.

Dorothy’s message did not reach him till after midday had come and gone.  Once Larkin had left the conclave and returned with his face big with consternation and surprise.  Gard divined that the news of the murder was out, but nothing was brought up except the business of the corporation.

When at last he left the meeting he motored back to the hotel, refusing the hospitality cordially extended to him, his one desire to be again in touch with events transpiring in New York.  He had hardly shown himself in the lobby when a page summoned him to the telephone.

It was Dorothy, her voice faint with fright.

“It’s you,” she cried—­“it’s you!  Have you learned anything about mother?  We haven’t any news—­nothing at all.  Mr. Brencherly and the doctor tell me that everything’s being done.  But I’m almost wild—­and listen; something awful has happened.  It’s your friend, Mr. Mahr, Teddy’s father—­he’s been murdered!”

“What!” exclaimed Gard, thankful that she could not see his face.

“Yes, yes,” she continued, “murdered in his own room—­they found him this morning—­they say you were the last person to see him before it was done.  Oh, Mr. Gard, aren’t you coming home soon?  It seems as if terrible things happen all the time—­and I’m frightened.  Please, come back!”

The voice choked in a sob, and her hearer longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, shield her from the terrible possibilities that loomed big on their horizon.

“My darling little girl, I’m coming, just as fast as I can.  I wouldn’t be here, leaving you to face this anxiety alone, if I could possibly help it—­you know that, dear,” he pleaded.  “I’ve one more important, unavoidable interview; then my car couples on to the first express.  Give Teddy all my sympathy.  I can hardly realize what you say.  Why, I saw him only last night just before I took the train.  Keep up your courage, and don’t be frightened.”