“John Mark,” he stammered, “your will, John Mark--_what is it touching_?” I looked at him in my helplessness. --Can not you see my helplessness? He answered my silence. He mastered himself and took my hand once more. He held it close. He was at ease and strong. “I respect you,” he whispered. And he went away. _n_ I shut the door and stood at the open window. Blackness. No spot of light, no twinge of movement marred the black of the world. I was tense with an expectancy. The black of the world was torture but I faced it. I knew the next step would bring me full within it: the blackness would speak. The night.... The bell of my telephone. There it was! A piercing channel to my ears, whereby the night would speak. I took up the receiver. “Yes,” I said. “Hold the wire.... Long distance.” Faint buzzing, piercings of sound poured with the night into my ear. “Hello.” “Yes.” “Doctor John Mark?” “Yes.” “Is this Doctor John Mark?” “Yes.” “Please hold the wire, sir. Huntington, Long Island ... wishes to speak to Doctor Mark.” “This is Huntington Hospital.” “This is Doctor Mark.” I spoke to the night. “What is it?” “This is Dr. John Mark?” A pause. “Doctor, there has been an accident. An automobile accident. Your parents----” “Are they at the hospital?” “Yes, doctor.” “Are they----” “Better come out, sir,” said the night. I rang off. * * * * * ... _What are you doing now?_ Mrs. Lansdowne’s voice. ... _Your will, what is it touching?_ The horror of Doctor Stein. * * * * * A train was pulling out. I caught it. I had no sense other than this full immersion in the night. And in consummation. And all of it still a Threshold.... A taxi rushed me to the hospital. A tall interne with gentle eyes came to me. “Are you Doctor Mark?” I nodded.--I am this night! What monstrous irony is this, calling me by a name that brings to gentle eyes commiseration and respect? “We did what we could.” “Both of them?” I spoke low, fearing an echo in the empty hall. He bowed his head and shut his lips against the anatomical details that urged them. “And Fergus, the chauffeur?” “He is not in danger. He was thrown free through the windshield. Contusions. Lacerations. A simple fracture in shoulder and arm. _They_ were pinned in. Windows shut. It was raining hard. Do you ... do you ... want to see them?” I shook my head. I saw them clear enough. “First,” I said, “let me see Fergus.” The boy lay in his high bed, bandaged: his bruised face gleaming with a spiritual torture that was almost like thirst in its need of being quenched. He did not wait for the door to shut. He shouted: “It was no accident! It was foul play, I tell you! Murder!” I pressed him back on his pillow. He struggled. So I let him half rise, knowing his need for spiritual quenchment more dangerous than his wounds.