The moment that the curtains had closed behind the two, Lucy Dean turned from the window with a suddenness that might be described as a bang, except that no noise went with the motion. Drawing two or three long breaths, as a relief to her suppressed speech, she crossed the room and picked up the reporter’s card, turned it over and over and, reading the name with deliberation, put it in her pocket. “Thomas Brownell, Jr., the _Daily Forum_,” she repeated, at the same time making a mental note that the card itself was of good quality and engraved, not printed, an unusual occurrence with the average reporter. Spying his hat, she next seized upon that, discovering at a single glance the name of a maker of good repute and Brownell’s own address, at a comfortable though inexpensive bachelor inn, stamped in gilt letters on the band. Hearing a slight rustling in the hall, she returned to her post by the window, but, instead of standing, she had thrown herself into a chair, half facing the room, by the time that the two returned. Nothing further was said as to what had been seen. Brownell picked up his hat, preparing to leave as quickly as possible, yet he could not but notice that Lucy Dean, who by this time had turned wholly toward the room, was looking at him with an expression half quizzical, half challenging. Brooke dropped wearily into the chair by the desk; the strain of the last hour had been greater than what she actually felt; she had been hurried swiftly to face stern realities, which all her life, though through no choice of her own, had been to her a side issue in which she took no part or responsibility, and which she was never allowed to question. Then, seeing that the reporter was standing and evidently at a loss how to go, she went forward with extended hand, saying, very gently, “Good-by. I think I may trust you not to misunderstand my father’s illness now.” Turning to the figure by the window, now all on the alert, she said, “Lucy, dear, will you please show Mr. Brownell the way out, there are so many turns in this inner hall?” Then, as Lucy raised her eyebrows in disgusted question marks, Brooke continued, “Ah, forgive me! this is my dear friend, Miss Dean, Mr. Brownell, and”—a little smile hovered around the comers of her mouth in spite of herself—“you may be very sure that she will never tell you anything but the whole truth!” Then, as the two girls changed places and Lucy led the way down the main hall, Brooke reseated herself before the desk, that might tell so much if it only could, folded her arms upon it, hiding her weary eyes in them. Had she done right or wrong in letting a stranger see her father’s real condition? Would it make outside conditions better or worse? Why had the doctor given out such evasive bulletins? Well, the die was cast, and something within told her that from that hour, when she had taken the family responsibility upon herself, she would have to bear it. * * * * *