And Antony knew that Cedersholm would never forget his cry of "Mary--Mary dead!" And her silence regarding his existence and his name, and that silence and that cry would go together in the husband's memory. The door of the studio was opened by Dearborn, who came in calling-- "Tony, Tony, old man." Cedersholm rose, and Antony rose as well, putting out his hand, saying-- "I will undertake the work you speak of, if your committee will write me confirming your suggestion. And I leave the price to you, you know; you understand what such work is worth. I place myself in your hands." Dearborn had come up to them. "Tony," said Dearborn, "what are you plotting in the dark with a single candle?" Fairfax presented him. "Mr. Cedersholm, Robert Dearborn, the playwright, the author of 'All Roads Meet.'" Dearborn shook the sculptor's hand lightly. He wondered how this must have been for his friend. He looked curiously from one to the other. "'All Roads Meet,'" he quoted keenly. "Good name, don't you think? They all do meet somewhere"--he put his hand affectionately on Tony's shoulder--"even if it is only at the Open Door." Then he asked, partly smiling, "And the beautiful Mrs. Cedersholm, is she in Paris too?" "My wife," said Cedersholm shortly, "died two years ago." "Dead!" exclaimed Robert Dearborn in a low tone of regret, the tone of every man who regrets the passing of a lovely creature that they have admired. "Dead! I beg your pardon, I did not know. I am too heartily sorry." He put out his kindly hand. Cedersholm scarcely touched it. He was excited, overwhelmed, and began to take his leave, to walk rapidly across the big room.