"Now here's what I intend you to do: you owe me something for the love that I give to you; you owe Graydon something for keeping him from dying. If you want to go into the nursing business, all right. But I'm going to demand some of your devotion for my own sake before that time comes. I've loved you all of your life--" "And I've loved you, daddy," she gasped. "And I'm going to ask you to begin your nursing career by attending to me. I'm sick for want of your love. I'm giving up business for the sake of enjoying it unrestrained. Your mother and I expect it. We are going abroad for our health and we are going to take you with us. Right now is where you begin your career as a nurse. You've got to begin by taking care of the love that is sick and miserable. We want it to live, my dear. Now, I want a direct decision--at once: will you take charge of two patients on a long-contemplated trip in search of love and rest--wages paid in advance?" She looked at him, white-faced and stunned. He was putting it before her fluently and in a new light. She saw what it was that he considered that she owed them--the love of a daughter, after all. An hour later she stood with Graydon on the rear platform of the car. He was trying to talk calmly of the country through which they were rushing and she was looking pensively down the rails that slipped out behind them. "We'll be in Chicago in three days," he remarked. "Graydon, I have decided to go abroad for five or six months before starting upon my work. They want me so much, you see," she said, her voice a trifle uncertain. "I wish I could have some power to persuade you," he said. Changing his tone to one of brisk interest, he went on. "It is right, dear. It will do you great good and it will be a joy to them. I'll miss you." "And I shall miss you, Graydon," she said, her eyes very solemn and wistful. "Won't you--won't you give me the promise I want, Jane?" he asked eagerly. She placed her hand upon his and shook her head. "Won't you be good to me, Graydon? Don't make it so hard for me. Please, please don't tell me again that you love me." CHAPTER XXIX THE WRECKAGE The spring floods delayed the Eastern Express, bringing the party to Chicago nearly a day late. The Cables and the Harbins went at once to the Annex, where David Cable had taken rooms. They had given up their North Side home some months before, both he and his wife retiring into the seclusion that a great hotel can afford when necessary. Graydon hurried off to his father's office, eager, yet half fearing to meet the man who was responsible for the broken link in his life--this odd year. He recalled, as he drove across town, that a full year had elapsed since he spent that unforgettable night in Elias Droom's uncanny home. Was he never to forget that night--that night when his soul seemed even more squalid than the home of the recluse?