The doctor was talking to Father Honore while untying the horse from the hitching-post at the kitchen porch. "She has stood it longer than I thought she could; but without the necessary sleep even her strong constitution and splendid physique can't supply sufficient nerve force to withstand such a strain--it's fearful. Something had to give somewhere. Practically she hasn't slept for over three weeks, and, what's more, she won't sleep till--she knows one way or the other. I can't give her opiates, for the strain has weakened her heart--I mean functionally." He stepped into the carriage. "You haven't heard anything since yesterday morning, have you?" "No; but I'm inclined to think that now he has put them off the track and got them over the border, he will make for New York again. It's my belief he will try to get out of the country by that door instead of by way of Canada." "I never thought of that." He gathered up the reins, and, leaning forward from the hood, looked earnestly into the priest's eyes. "Make her talk if you can--it's her only salvation. She hasn't opened her lips to me, and till she speaks out--you understand--I can do nothing. The fever is only the result of the nerve-strain." "I wish it were in my power to help her. I may as well tell you now--but I'd like it to remain between ourselves, of course I've told the Colonel--that I determined last night to go down to New York and see if I can accomplish anything. I shall have two private detectives there to work with me. You know the city agency has its men out there already?" "No, I didn't. I thought all the force was centred here in this State and on the Canada line. It strikes me that if she could know you were going--and for what--she might speak. You might try that, and let me know the result." "I will." The doctor drove off. Father Honore stood for a few minutes on the back porch; he was thinking concentratedly:--How best could he approach the stricken mother and acquaint her with his decision to search for her son? He was roused by the sound of a gentle voice speaking in French: "Good-morning, Father Honore; how is Mrs. Googe? I have just heard of her illness." It was Sister Ste. Croix from the sisterhood home in The Gore. The crisp morning air tinged with a slight color her wrinkled and furrowed cheeks; her eyelids, also, were horribly wrinkled, as could be plainly seen when they drooped heavily over the dark blue eyes. Yet Sister Ste. Croix was still in middle life. "There is every cause for great anxiety, I grieve to say. The doctor has just gone." "Who is with her, do you know?" "Mrs. Caukins, so Ellen says." "Do you think she would object to having me nurse her for a while? She has been so lovely to me ever since I came here, and in one way and another we have been much together. I have tried again and again to see her during these dreadful weeks, but she has steadily refused to see me or any of us--just shut herself out from her friends."