I want to say to him; not about
this, of course. Yes, I could telephone, Dennison; but I hate to
interrupt him, when he is in his study at the church; and, at the
house, there's always the danger of calling out Mrs. Brenton. Going? I
wish you wouldn't. Still," and the brown eyes sought the window; "I
can't blame you, such a day."

"Oh, Reed, don't!" Olive said hastily, as she bent to take his hand.
"It makes us seem so selfish. When will the time ever come that you can
go, too?"

Reed shut his lips. Although, of late, both he and Olive had dropped
their reticence and faced squarely and without evasion the facts of his
long imprisonment, even with Dolph, the mention of it hurt him acutely.
Dolph, that day, was so astonishingly alert, so scrupulously charming
in his Sunday trim, such a contrast to himself, flattened out under a
plaid steamer rug whose fringe persisted in getting into his mouth at
times, and with his wavy hair a little disarranged across his forehead.
Ramsdell was invaluable; but, after all, he was nurse primarily, not
valet. But, as for Dolph, he was a thing of beauty and, what was more,
a thing of life, not a soggy bundle like himself. Indeed, he was a fit
comrade for Olive.

Despite his blithe farewell, Reed's brown eyes drooped heavily, after
he had watched the two of them pass out of sight around the corner of
the doorway. Good comrades? Yes. The thin lips lost their steadiness,
quivered a little, then opened, to send an answer out to the final hail
that came back to him from the hall below. A moment afterward, the chin
quivered, even as the lips had done, and something glittered on the
long brown lashes.

"Ramsdell?" Reed said, a little later.

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you been working on this thing?"

"Eleven months and a 'alf, sir."

"Have I made any gain at all?"

"Ye--es, sir. Oh, yes."

Reed smiled grimly.

"How much am I going to keep on gaining?"

"Well, sir," Ramsdell's accent was supposed to be encouraging; "you
see, there's always 'ope, sir."

"I'm glad of so much. Well, never mind about that now. I want to send a
telegram. Please get the blanks."

With Ramsdell seated by his side, blanks in one hand, fountain pen in
the other, Opdyke paused to consider.

"Well, there's no use beating about the bush. I may as well go straight
to the point. Ready, Ramsdell? All right. _To H. P. Whittenden, Seven,
Blank Street, New York City._ Sure you've got that right? All right.
Th