om to wait.
It was a long hour they passed there. Rankin sat silent, holding on his
knee little Ariadne, who amused herself quietly with his watch and the
leather strap that held it. He took the back off, and let her see the
little wheel whirring back and forth. His eyes never left the child's
serious, rosy face. Once or twice he laid his large, work-roughened hand
gently on her dark hair.

Dr. Melton fidgeted about, making excursions into the sick room and
downstairs to look after his business by telephone, and, when he sat by
the door, relieving his overburdened heart from time to time in some
sudden exclamation. "Paul hasn't left a penny, of course," one of these
ran, "and he hadn't finished paying for the house. But she'll come
naturally to live with Julia and me." At these last words, in spite of
his painful preoccupation, a tender look of anticipation lighted his
face.

Again, he said: "What crazy notion can it be about the whatever-it-was
getting Paul?" Later, "Was there ever such a characteristic death?"
Finally, with a long sigh: "Poor Paul! Poor Paul! It doesn't seem more
than yesterday that he was a little boy. He was a brave little boy!"

Mrs. Sandworth came to the door. "She's beginning to come to herself, I
think. She stirs, and moves her hands about."

As she spoke, there was a scream from the bedroom: "My baby! My baby!"

Rankin sprang to his feet, holding Ariadne on one arm, and stepped
quickly inside. "Here is the baby," he said in a quiet voice. "I was
holding her all the time you slept. I will not let the Minotaur come
near her."

Lydia looked at him long, with no sign of recognition. The room was
intensely silent. A drop of blood showed on Dr. Melton's lower lip where
his teeth gripped it.

"Nobody else sees it," said Lydia in a hurried, frightened tone. "They
won't believe me when I say it is there. They won't take care of
Ariadne. They can't--"

"I see it," Rankin broke in. He went on steadily: "I will take care
that it does not hurt Ariadne."

"Do you promise?" asked Lydia solemnly.

"I promise," said Rankin.

Lydia looked about her wonderingly, with blank eyes. "I think, then, I
will lie down and rest a little," she said, in a thin, weak voice. "I
feel very tired. I can't seem to remember what makes me so tired." She
sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. Her face was like a sick
child's in its appealing, patient look of suffering. She looked up at
Rankin again. "You will n