in there with what's left of Gerard--why
he's sent Dean where he ain't to be found, if I'm lying."

Mr. Rose released Rupert's shoulder, both men equally oblivious of the
pain his grasp had inflicted on bruised flesh and muscle, and turned his
gray face to the surrounding group in dumb quest of confirmation. Then,
moving stiffly, he walked toward the house.

There was an authority in his bearing that gained him unopposed
entrance. In the hall, nauseating with the ominous odor of antiseptics,
he was met by one of the doctors.

"You can turn my house into a hospital," Mr. Rose said briefly. "I want
Gerard taken there instead of to your places. You can have all the money
you like."

The man looked at the card presented, his professional impassivity
flickering, but shook his head.

"He would better not be moved at all, sir; at least, not to-day. He can
be asked, if you wish."

"He is conscious, then?"

"Just about," he shrugged, reaching for the door. "Here, if you care to
go in."

The room was glaring with light, the lace curtains were dragged wide
apart from the windows and the shades rolled high. Idle now in the
presence of more skilled attendants, but recognized as one who had
earned the right to be there, Corrie stood near the foot of the
improvised bed, leaning against the wall with his fair head slightly
bent. At the sound of the door he turned that way, as Mr. Rose stopped
on the threshold.

The snapping latch, or some more subtle influence, aroused someone else.
Slowly Gerard's heavy lashes lifted, and he saw father and son looking
at each other across the parlor strewn with the tragic litter of the
last hour's work. There was nothing to interrupt the triple regard; it
endured long, with steadfast intensity.

In a corner two surgeons were holding a subdued consultation, a third
was busied at the marble table, the attention of all fully engaged.

"Put a pillow under my head, someone," suddenly bade the shadow of Allan
Gerard's voice, across the hush. "And give me a cigarette."

There was a startled flurry in the room. Familiar enough with the last
request from his masculine patients, the man at the table took a case
from his own pocket and, lighting one of the cigarettes, stooped over
the bed.

"Keep your grip on yourself," he approved brusquely. "But don't move."

It was in his left hand that Gerard took the tiny narcotic, his right
arm and shoulder were a mere bulk of splints and linen bandages.