"No! No! No! It isn't true! It isn't--Oh, it's some
joke, isn't it? Tell me, it's--it's something funny,
isn't it? And after a bit we'll laugh--we'll laugh--of
course--see! I am smiling already--"
"Dawn--dear one--it is true. God knows I wish that
I could be happy to know it. The hospital authorities
pronounce him cured. He has been quite sane for weeks."
"You knew it--how long?"
"You know that Max has attended to all communications
from the doctors there. A few weeks ago they wrote that
Orme had shown evidences of recovery. He spoke of you,
of the people he had known in New York, of his work on the
paper, all quite rationally and calmly. But they must
first be sure. Max went to New York a week ago. Peter
was gone. The hospital authorities were frightened and
apologetic. Peter had walked away quite coolly one day.
He had gone into the city, borrowed money of some old
newspaper cronies, and vanished. He may be there still.
He may be--"
"Here! Ernst! Take me home! O God; I can't do it!
I can't! I ought to be happy, but I'm not. I ought to
be thankful, but I'm not, I'm not! The horror of having
him there was great enough, but it was nothing compared
to the horror of having him here.
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