There was nothing Clifford could do but merely wait. Through an open doorway--all the patients were on the same floor--he saw Mary Regan sitting at a window. He entered. She gave him a look from her pale face, and without saying anything looked back out the window. He drew a chair up beside her, and they both sat gazing out--at the flag with a white field and a cross of blue which told that this little hospital had become an auxiliary hospital of the United States Navy--and beyond at the harbor, with its scores of small white craft, one of which was doubtless the yacht of Loveman’s visioned voyage--the voyage that now would never be. Neither spoke; there were no interruptions--Mr. Morton was at Jack’s bedside, and had not left it. Clifford felt numb: part of this was physical weariness, part the shock of what had so swiftly happened, and part the sense of large issues (he was not then conscious of what they all were) that remained still in the balance. An hour of this heavy silence passed--two hours; Mary, with white, set face, continued to gaze out upon the harbor of tiny ships. At length Clifford rose mechanically and went out into the corridor, and paced to and fro. Presently he saw a nurse come from Jack’s room and enter Loveman’s, and after a moment he saw the doctor who was with Loveman--Dr. Peters, Clifford knew him to be, a great nerve specialist,--emerge followed by the two nurses and enter Jack’s room. He noted that Loveman’s door had been left open; and first, without purpose, merely as a break in the routine of his walking, he paused and looked in. Then he entered and crossed to Loveman’s bed. To his surprise Loveman’s large bright eyes were wide open; they recognized him--and Clifford saw that they were alive with all of Loveman’s intelligence. He gazed down at the sheet-covered figure, and something of the fury revived which had lain dumb in him these last two or three hours. “Well, Loveman, I’ve landed you at last!” he said grimly. The little lawyer made no response. “Make no mistake about it, Loveman,--I’ve got you for fair this time--and got you eleven different ways from Sunday!” Still the little man did not speak, though his eyes showed that he understood every word. Clifford was provoked at the manner in which Loveman ignored him. “Haven’t you any come-back at all, Loveman--you were usually quick enough with your tongue.” “See here--what are you doing with my patient?” a sharp voice called from the door. Clifford turned. Approaching was Dr. Peters. “He may be your patient, but he is my prisoner,” Clifford returned stiffly, still under the influence of his revived fury. But at once he was himself again. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Peters, but this man here is responsible for all that has happened.” And then: “He seems to have very much of a grouch against me--rather natural, I suppose. He wouldn’t even say a word to me. What’s the matter with him?”