In as few words as possible, she sketched the story of the recovered pocket. Madam Crewe heard her through, in silence. In silence, received the object that had, at one time, been such a determining factor in her life. Katherine could not see that she betrayed, by so much as the quiver of an eyelash, the natural interest one might be conceived as feeling in so significant a link with the past. "Be good enough to leave me," the old woman said at last. "And don’t open this subject again, unless I bid you. If I need any one I’ll ring for Eunice. Don’t _you_ come—for the present. Oh, before you go, see that you keep a close mouth about this thing, not alone to me, but to _every one_. Understand?" Katherine nodded dumbly. She felt like a child dismissed in disgrace, or a prisoner returned to his cell. She did not know how long she remained in her room, but when Eunice came to announce luncheon, she sent her away, merely explaining that she was not hungry. And would Eunice kindly answer if Madam Crewe should ring? Within her, a hundred impulses of revolt urged to some act of self-deliverance. She fought them down with appeals to her own better nature, her grandmother’s need of her. It was to escape from herself, as much as from her environment, that, at last, in desperation, she caught up her hat and left the house. She had been gone several hours, and it was twilight, when a low tap sounded on Madam Crewe’s door. Without waiting for permission to come in, Dr. Ballard did so. The old woman started up, as if his presence roused her from sleep, but he could see she had been fully awake. "You look as if you had been through the wars," she observed dryly, examining his face with her searching eyes. He dropped heavily into the chair she indicated. "I have," he answered. "You’ve saved two souls alive? Mother and child?" He nodded. "But the war’s not over. The fight’s still on. I’ve done all _I_ can. The rest lies with——" The old woman took him up sharply. "Don’t try to talk. Touch that bell." Then, when Eunice, responding, stood on the threshold: "Bring me the leathern case you’ll find standing beside the clothes-press in my dressing-room. Yes ... that’s the one. Bring it here to me! Now, go downstairs and fetch a plateful of hard biscuits. Hurry! ... Stop! ... Before you go, hand me that glass from my table." When the girl was gone, Madam Crewe unlocked the case before her, took from it a flask, and with surprisingly steady hands, poured a share of its contents into the glass Eunice had placed on the wide arm of her chair. "Wine?" asked Dr. Ballard doubtfully, hesitating to drink. "No, not wine. Drink it down. Now, the biscuits. Don’t talk." She pretended to busy herself with the leathern case upon her knees—replacing the flask, turning the key in the lock, rather elaborately fingering the smooth surface, as if all her attention was concentrated on some imaginary fleck or flaw she had just discovered.