ave had my letter--they must be expecting me--

"Something in the woman's face daunted me. It was deathly and strained.
Surely she did not intend to continue her opposition? Yet it confused
me. I forgot all that I had intended to say, I stammered:

"'I am Henry Chedridge. I want to see Molly. I am rich, I have my
degree--'

"'You cannot see her!' she said. Just that! The door began to close. But
I had myself in hand now. I laid hold of the door and spoke in a
different tone. The tone of a master.

"'This is foolish, Mrs. Weston. I thought you understood. I can and I
will see your daughter. Molly is my wife!'

"She gave way at that. The door opened wide, showing a long empty hall.
The woman stood aside, made no effort to stop me, but looking me in the
eyes she said: 'You come too late. Your wife is not here. Molly
is dead!'

"Then, in one second, it seemed that all the years of overwork, of
mental strain and bodily deprivation rose up and took their due. I tried
to speak, stuttered foolishly, and fell like dead over the door-sill of
the house I was never to enter.

"You know the rest, for you saved me. When I struggled back to life,
without the will to live, you shamed and stung me into effort. You
brought the new master-influence into my life, taught me that the old
ambition, the old work-ardour was not dead. Those months with you in
Paris, in Germany, in London at the feet of great men saw a veritable
new birth. I ceased to be Henry Chedridge, lover, and became Henry
Callandar, scientist. All this I owe to you."

The other raised his hand.

"No, not that. Some impulse I may have given you, but you have made
yourself what you are. But--you have not told me all yet?"

"No." Again the doctor began his uneasy pacing of the room. "The rest is
harder to tell. It is not so clear. It has nothing to do with facts at
all. It is just that when I first began to show signs of overwork this
last time I became troubled with an idea, an obsession. It had no
foundation. It persisted without reason. It was fast becoming
unbearable!"

He paused in his restless pacing and Willits' keen eyes noticed the look
of strain which had aroused his alarm some months ago. Nevertheless he
asked in his most matter-of-fact tone, "And the idea was--?"

Callandar hesitated. "I can hardly speak of it yet in the past tense.
The idea is--that Molly is not dead!"

"Good Heavens!" ejaculated the professor, startled out of his calm. "But
have