As the soft lights were once more renewed, Gard started, so vividly had he reconstructed the scene as he had last looked upon it, with that hasty yet detailed scrutiny of the stage manager.  He was almost surprised to find the great damask-covered easy chair untenanted, and order restored to the length and breadth of the library table.  Involuntarily his eyes sought the wall behind the desk, where the panoply of ancient arms glinted somberly, then scanned the polished surface of the wood in search of what?—­of the stiletto that was a foil in miniature.  Somehow, though he knew that it, along with other relics of that dreadful passing, were in charge of the officials of the law, he had expected to see it there.  Something of the impermanence of life and the indifferent, soulless permanence of things, flashed through his mind.  “Art and art alone, enduring, stays to us,” he quoted the words aloud unconsciously.  “The bust outlasts the throne, the coin—­Tiberius.”  His eyes were fixed upon the picture, which, though thrown in no relief by the unlighted globes above it, yet in its very obscurity, dominated the room with its all but unseen presence.

“Oh, no, not that alone,” Teddy Mahr objected.  “Don’t you think we live on, in what we have done, in what we have been, in what we desire to do?”

Gard was silent.  The words seemed irony.  “I believe,” he said slowly, “that the end is not yet.  I believe that we are each accountable for our individual being.  I believe that every one of us is his brother’s keeper.”  He was silent.  His own short, newly evolved credo, surprised him.

Teddy crossed to the great armchair, and laid his hand on it reverently.

“It was here his Fate found him,” he said with quiet self-control.  “Where will Fate find me—­or you—­I wonder?”

“Fate has found me,” said Gard.  “Death isn’t the only thing that Fate means, but Life also; and it’s of Life I came to speak to you—­as well as the Past, that we must realize is—­the Past.  Of course, you know what has been learned—­something about what happened here.  Now, I want to tell you of my plans.  I want, if possible, to keep things quiet—­Oh, it’s only comparatively speaking—­but we can avoid a great deal of publicity, if you will let me handle the matter.  It’s for your sake, and I’m sure your father would desire it—­and—­pardon me, if I presume on grounds I’m not supposed to know anything of—­but for Dorothy’s, too.  Dorothy may have to face bereavement too.  Publicity, details, the nine days’ wonder—­it’s all unpleasant, distressing.  I have arranged to see the District Attorney to-morrow night.  He can, if he will, materially aid us.  This poor insane woman has delusions that it would be painful for you to even know.  It would certainly be most unfortunate if she were tried or examined in public.  I’d rather you didn’t come—­did not even see her at any time.  Will you trust me?  You have a perfect right to do otherwise, I know—­but—­will you believe me when I say I’ve given this my best thought, and I believe I am giving you the best advice?”