In three weeks from the night of Mrs. Thornton’s death, which had had at least no visible effect on Needley, Needley was metamorphosed—­with a spontaneity, so to speak, that astounded even Madison himself—­into something that approximated very closely in reality the word-picture he had drawn of it that night in the Roost.  Madison looked upon his work and saw that it was pleasing beyond his dreams.  Money was pouring in—­no single breath of suspicion came to disquiet him.  Even the cures were working satisfactorily—­even Pale Face Harry, who had become great friends with the farmer at whose house he boarded, and who now spent most of his time in the fields, was showing an improvement—­Pale Face Harry coughed less.  The Flopper was as happy as a lark—­and Mamie Rodgers blushed now at mention of the name of Coogan.  Helena, demure, adored by all who saw her, went daily about her housework in the cottage, and waited upon the Patriarch with gentle tenderness; while the Patriarch, docile, full of supreme trust and confidence in every one, radiant in Helena’s companionship, was as putty in their hands.  And so Madison looked upon his work and saw no flaw—­but with the days he grew ill at ease.

“It’s too easy,” he told himself.  “I guess that’s it—­it’s too easy.  The whole show runs itself.  Why, there’s nothing to do but count the cash!”

And yet in his heart he knew that wasn’t it—­it was Helena.  Helena was beginning to trouble him a little.  She was playing the game all right—­playing it to the limit—­and making a hit at every performance.  Her name was on every tongue, and men and women alike spoke of her sweetness, her goodness, her loveliness.  Well, that was all right, Helena was a star no matter where you put her—­but something was the matter.  Helena wasn’t the Helena of a month ago back in little old New York.  He hadn’t managed to get a dozen words with her since that night on the station platform, without taking chances and gaining admission to the cottage through the Flopper’s window after dark—­and then she had held him at arm’s length.

“The matter with me?” she had said.  “There isn’t anything the matter with me—­is there?  I’m—­I’m playing the game.”

It certainly couldn’t be grief over Mrs. Thornton’s death—­she had begun to act that way before Mrs. Thornton died—­that night when she came home with Thornton, and he and the Flopper were behind the trellis.  Thornton!  Had Thornton anything to do with it, after all?  No—­Madison had laughed at it then, and he had much more reason to laugh at it now.  Thornton was still in Chicago, and hadn’t been back to Needley.

For three weeks this sort of thing occupied a considerably larger share of Madison’s thoughts than he was wont to allow even the most vexing problems to disturb his usually imperturbable and complacent self—­and then one afternoon, he smiled a little grimly, and, leaving the hotel, started along the road toward the Patriarch’s cottage.