No one suspected that the young architect had killed himself.  Garry was known to have suffered from insomnia, and was supposed to have taken an overdose of chloral.  The doctor so decided, and the doctor’s word was law in such matters, and so there was no coroner’s inquest.  Then again, it was also known that he was doing a prosperous business with several buildings still in course of construction, and that his wife’s stepfather was a prominent banker.

McGowan and his friends were stupefied.  One hope was left, and that was Jack’s promise that either he or Garry would be at the trustees’ meeting on Monday night.

Jack had not forgotten.  Indeed nothing else filled his mind.  There were still three days in which to work.  The shock of his friend’s death, tremendous as it was, had only roused him to a greater need of action.  The funeral was to take place on Sunday, but he had Saturday and Monday left.  What he intended to do for Garry and his career he must now do for Garry’s family and Garry’s reputation.  The obligation had really increased, because Garry could no longer fight his battles himself; nor was there a moment to lose.  The slightest spark of suspicion would kindle a flame of inquiry, and the roar of an investigation would follow.  McGowan had already voiced his own distrust of Garry’s methods.  No matter what the cost, this money must be found before Monday night.

The secret of both the suicide and the defalcation was carefully guarded from MacFarlane, who, with his daughter, went at once to Minott’s house, proffering his services to the stricken widow, but nothing was withheld from Ruth.  The serious financial obligations which Jack was about to undertake would inevitably affect their two lives; greater, therefore, than the loyalty he owed to the memory of his dead friend, was the loyalty which he owed to the woman who was to be his wife, and from whom he had promised to hide no secrets.  Though he felt sure what her answer would be, his heart gave a great bound of relief when she answered impulsively, without a thought for herself or their future: 

“You are right, dearest.  These things make me love you more.  You are so splendid, Jack.  And you never disappoint me.  It is Garry’s poor little boy who must be protected.  Everybody would pity the wife, but nobody would pity the child.  He will always be pointed at when he grows up.  Dear little tot!  He lay in my arms so sweet and fresh this morning, and put his baby hands upon my cheek, and looked so appealingly into my face.  Oh, Jack, we must help him.  He has done nothing.”

They were sitting together as she spoke, her head on his shoulder, her fingers held tight in his strong, brown hand.  She could get closer to him in this position, she always told him:  these hands and cheeks were the poles of a battery between which flowed and flashed the vitality of two sound bodies, and through which quivered the ecstasy of two souls.