He stood very erect, speaking with formality, with a certainly stilted, “learned by rote” manner, very different from his usual fiery utterances.

Teddy respected his mood and bowed with courtly deference.  “You were my father’s friend,” he said.  “You were the last to be with him.  I know you are giving me the wisest advice a wise man can give, and I accept it gratefully, Mr. Gard—­for myself, and father and for Dorothy, too.”

The older man held out his hand.  Their clasp was strong and responsive.  There were tears in Teddy’s eyes, and he turned his head away quickly.

“Then,” said Gard briskly, “it is understood.  You also know and realize why I have kept the whole matter under seal.  Why I have secreted this poor demented creature, have kept even you in ignorance of her whereabouts.  Oh, I know I have had your consent all along; I know you have given me your complete trust long before this; but to-night I wanted your final cooperation in the hardest task of all—­to acquiesce, while in ignorance, to permit matters that concern you, and you alone most truly and deeply, to be placed in the hands of others.  I thank you for your faith, boy.  God bless you.”

Teddy saw his guest to the door, stood in the entry watching him descend to the street and his car, and turned away with a sigh.  He reentered the room they had left, and stood for a moment in grave thought.  He sighed again as he plunged the apartment in darkness and, leaving, locked the doors one after the other.  Something, some very vital part of his existence was shut behind him forever.  There were questions that he might not ask himself—­there were veils he must not lift—­there was a door in his heart, the door to the shrine of a dead man—­it must be locked forever, if he would keep it a sanctuary.

In the hall once more, he turned toward the entrance; his thoughts again with the strong, kindly presence of the man who had just left him.  He wondered why he had never realized the vast, unselfish human force in Gard.  “What an indomitable soul,” he said softly.  “I must have been very blind.”

* * * * *

XV

The following day found Marcus Gard at the usual morning hour in conference with Dorothy.  The girl was radiant.  The nurses had reported a splendid sleep and a calm awakening.  She had been allowed a moment with her mother, whose voice was no longer faint, but was regaining its old vibrant quality.

The doctor entered smiling and grasped Gard’s extended hand.

“You said it,” he laughed.  “Whatever it was, you said it, all right.  Mrs. Marteen slept like a child, and there’s color in her face to-day.  See if you can do as well again.  I’ll give you five minutes—­no, ten.”