Warned by Lucy, the nurse went to her room and did not disturb them.  But she sat for a time in her rocking-chair, before she changed into the nightgown and kimono in which she slept on the couch in David’s room.  She knew the story, and her kindly heart ached within her.  What good would it do after all, this home-coming?  Dick could not stay.  It was even dangerous.  Reynolds had confided to her that he suspected a watch on the house by the police, and that the mail was being opened.  What good was it?

Across the hall she could hear Lucy moving briskly about in Dick’s room, changing the bedding, throwing up the windows, opening and closing bureau drawers.  After a time Lucy tapped at her door and she opened it.

“I put a cake of scented soap among your handkerchiefs,” she said, rather breathlessly.  “Will you let me have it for Doctor Dick’s room?”

She got the soap and gave it to her.

“He is going to stay, then?”

“Certainly he is going to stay,” Lucy said, surprised.  “This is his home.  Where else should he go?”

But David knew.  He lay, listening with avid interest to Dick’s story, asking a question now and then, nodding over Dick’s halting attempt to reconstruct the period of his confusion, but all the time one part of him, a keen and relentless inner voice, was saying:  “Look at him well.  Hold him close.  Listen to his voice.  Because this hour is yours, and perhaps only this hour.”

“Then the Sayre woman doesn’t know about your coming?” he asked, when Dick had finished.

“Still, she mustn’t talk about having seen you.  I’ll send Reynolds up in the morning.”

He was eager to hear of what had occurred in the long interval between them, and good, bad and indifferent Dick told him.  But he limited himself to events, and did not touch on his mental battles, and David saw and noted it.  The real story, he knew, lay there, but it was not time for it.  After a while he raised himself in his bed.

“Call Lucy, Dick.”

When she had come, a strangely younger Lucy, her withered cheeks flushed with exercise and excitement, he said: 

“Bring me the copy of the statement I made to Harrison Miller, Lucy.”

She brought it, patted Dick’s shoulder, and went away.  David held out the paper.

“Read it slowly, boy,” he said.  “It is my justification, and God willing, it may help you.  The letter is from my brother, Henry.  Read that, too.”

Lucy, having got Dick’s room in readiness, sat down in it to await his coming.  Downstairs, in the warming oven, was his supper.  His bed, with the best blankets, was turned down and ready.  His dressing-gown and slippers were in their old accustomed place.  She drew a long breath.

Below, Doctor Reynolds came in quietly and stood listening.  The house was very still, and he decided that his news, which was after all no news, could wait.  He went into the office and got out a sheet of note-paper, with his name at the top, and began his nightly letter to Clare Rossiter.