“Here!” he snapped, “send a taxi over to the park—­the bench opposite No. —­, and pick up a man with an old lady.  She’s unconscious.”

For an instant the light glinted on his metal badge as he threw back his coat.  The starter nodded.  Brencherly settled back again in his place with a sigh of relief.  It was only a matter of moments now, and he would have brought to an unexpectedly successful close the task he had set himself.  He began to build air castles; to construct for himself a little niche in his own selected temple of Fame.  He was aroused from his revery by a voice at his side.  Mrs. Marteen was speaking, at first indistinctly, then with insistent repetition.

“I can’t remember—­I can’t remember.”

He turned to her with gentle questioning, but she did not heed him.  Slowly, with infinite effort, as if her slender hands were weighted down, she lifted them before her face.  She stared at them with growing horror depicted on her face.  He was suddenly reminded of an electrifying performance of Macbeth he had once witnessed.  A red glare from a ruby lamp at a fire-street corner splashed her frail fingers with vivid color as they passed it by.  She gave a scream that ended in a moan, and mechanically wiped her hands back and forth, back and forth, upon her coat.  Brencherly’s heart ached for her.  Over and over he repeated reassuring words in her deafened ears, striving to lay the awful ghost that had fastened like a vampire on her heart.  But to no avail.  She was as beyond his reach as if she were a creature of another planet.  Never in his active, efficient life had he felt so helpless.  It was with thanksgiving that at last he saw the ornate entrance of Mrs. Marteen’s home.

“Watch her!” he ordered the chauffeur, as he leaped up the steps and into the vestibule to prepare for her reception.

A message to her apartment brought the maid and butler in haste.  With many exclamations of alarm and sympathy they bore her to her own room once more, and laid her upon the bed.  She lay limp and still, while they hurried about her with restoratives.

Brencherly was at the telephone.  Almost at once, in answer to his ring, Doctor Balys’ voice sounded over the wire in hasty congratulations and promises of immediate assistance.  Hanging up the receiver, he turned again to his patient.

Through the silent apartment the sound of the doorbell buzzed with sudden shock.  The butler stood as if transfixed.

“It’s Miss Dorothy!” he exclaimed in consternation.  “She went out to walk a little, with young Mr. Mahr.  She was nervous and couldn’t rest, and telephoned for him to come—­in spite of—­in spite of—­” He hesitated.  “Anyway, Mr. Mahr—­young Mr. Mahr—­came for her, sir.  Mr.—­Mr.—­I think you’d better break it to her, sir.  She mustn’t see her mother like this—­without warning!”

Brencherly ran down the hall, the servant preceding him.  As the door swung wide, Dorothy, followed by Teddy Mahr, entered the hallway.  She stopped suddenly, face to face with a stranger.