“Who are you?  What do you want?” she asked, sudden fear and suspicion in her eyes.

Brencherly explained quickly.

“Mr. Gard employed me, Miss Marteen, to find your mother, if possible—­and—­she is here.  Don’t be alarmed.”

Dorothy sank into a chair, weak with relief.  Teddy put forth his hand to help her.  Instinctively she remained clasping his arm as if his presence gave her strength.

“And she’s all right—­she isn’t hurt—­or—­or anything?” she implored breathlessly.

“She’s very ill, I’m afraid,” said Brencherly.  “I think you—­had better not go to her till the doctor comes.  I’ve sent for him.”

“Oh! but I must—­I must!” she cried, tears in her voice.

In the rush of happenings no one had thought of Mrs. Mellows.  Hers was not a personality to commend itself in moments of stress.  Now she suddenly appeared, her eyes swollen with sleep, her ample form swathed in a dressing gown.

“What is the matter?” she complained.  “I told you, Dorothy, that I thought it very bad form, indeed, for you and Mr. Mahr to go out.  In bereavements, such as yours, sir, it’s not the proper thing for you to be making exhibitions of yourself.  Like as not the reporters have been taking pictures.  And at any time they may find out that my poor dear sister is ill and wandering.  I don’t know what to say!  The papers will be full of it.  And you!” she exclaimed, having for the first time become aware of the detective’s presence.  “Who are you.  How did you get in?  I hope and pray you’re not a reporter!—­Dorothy, don’t tell me you’ve brought a reporter in here—­or I shall leave this house at once!”

“No, Aunt, no!” cried Dorothy.  “This—­this gentleman, has brought my mother home.  She’s in her room now—­she’s—­”

Mrs. Mellows turned and made a rush down the corridor.  Four pairs of hands stayed her in her flight.

“No—­no!” begged Dorothy.  “This gentleman says she is very ill.  We mustn’t disturb her—­Aunt—­please—­the doctor is coming.”

As if the name had conjured him, a ring announced Doctor Balys’ arrival.  He entered hastily, his emergency bag in his hand.

“Mr. Brencherly, come with me, please,” he ordered.  “You can tell me the details as I work.  Miss Marteen and Mrs. Mellows, wait for me, and I’ll come and tell you the facts just as soon as I know them myself.”  He nodded unceremoniously and followed Brencherly.

As they neared Mrs. Marteen’s room the silence was suddenly broken by a cry.  Balys strode past his guide and threw open the door.

Mrs. Marteen, sitting erect in the bed, held out rigid arms as if in desperate appeal.  The terrified maid stood by, wringing her hands.

“Gard!” she called.  “Marcus Gard! help me!  Tell me—­I’ll believe you—­I’ll believe you—­will you tell me the truth!” Her strength left her suddenly, and as the physician placed a supporting arm about her, she sank back, her eyes closed wearily.  As he laid her gently back upon the pillows, she sighed softly, her heavy lids unclosed a moment.  “I knew you’d come,” she murmured.  “You’ll take care of—­of Dorothy—­you will—­” Her voice trailed off into nothingness; then “Marcus”—­she whispered.