“No. ...” she said, tremulously.  “Yes. ...”

Bonbright straightened his car in the road and drove on.  He was at the end of his strength.  He wanted the aid of a physician, and then he wanted to lie down and sleep, and sleep.  The day that had preceded the attack upon him had been wearing enough to exhaust the sturdiest.  The tension of waiting, the anxiety, the mental disturbance, had demanded their usual wages of mind and body.  Sudden shock had done the rest.

He drove to the private hospital of a doctor of his acquaintance, a member of his club, and gained admission.  The doctor himself was there, by good fortune, and saw Bonbright at once, and examined the wounds in his scalp.

“Strikers get you?” he asked.

“Automobile mix-up,” said Bonbright, weakly.

“Uh-huh!” said the doctor.  “I suppose somebody picked up a light roadster and struck you over the head with it. ...  Not cut much.  No stitches.  A little adhesive’ll do the trick—­and then. ...  Sort of excited, eh?  Been under a bit of a strain? ...  None of my business, of course. ...  Get into bed and I’ll send up something to tone you down and make you sleep.  You’ve been playing in too high a key—­your fiddle strings are too tight.”

Getting into that cool, soft bed was one of the pleasantest experiences of Bonbright’s life.  He was almost instantly asleep—­and he still slept, even at the deliberate hour that saw his father enter the office at the mills.

Mr. Foote was disturbed.  He had not seen his son since the boy flung out of the office the morning before; had had no word of him.  He had expected Bonbright to come home in the evening and had waited for him in the library to have a word with him.  He had come to the conclusion that it would be best to throw some sort of sop to Bonbright in the way of apparent authority, of mock responsibility.  It would occupy the boy’s mind, he thought, while in no way altering the conditions, not affecting the end to be arrived at.  Bonbright must be held. ...  If it were necessary to administer an anaesthetic while the operation of remaking him into a true Foote was performed, why, the anaesthetic would be forthcoming.

But Bonbright did not come, even with twelve strokes of the clock.  His father retired, but in no refreshing sleep. ...  On that day no progress had been made with the Marquis Lafayette.  That work required a calm that Mr. Foote could not master.

His first act after seating himself at his desk was to summon Rangar.

“My son was not at home last night,” he said.  “I have not seen him since yesterday morning.  I hope you can give me an account of him.”

“Not home last night, Mr. Foote!” Manifestly Rangar was startled.  He had not been at ease before, for be had been unable to pick up any trace of the boy this morning; had not seen him return home the night before. ...  It might be that he had gone too far when he sent his anonymous note to Dulac.  Dulac had gone in pursuit, of that he had made sure.  But what had happened?  Had the matter gone farther than the mere thrashing he had hoped for? ...  He was frightened.