“What’s the matter?” Dr. Peters repeated, looking at him keenly. Then he drew Clifford aside, out of Loveman’s hearing. “All that’s the matter with Mr. Loveman,” he answered slowly, “is that the accident caused a hemorrhage affecting the sensory and motor portions of the brain causing a permanent aphasia.” “What’s that mean, doctor, in plain English?” “It means that he has permanently lost the use of legs and arms, and that he’ll never speak again.” Clifford stared. “But he seems to understand!” he cried. “He understands everything. His brain is as good as it ever was, and it will be as good as ever for perhaps thirty years to come. But by no possibility can he ever communicate to a second person what that brain is thinking of.” Clifford stared at the doctor, mumbled something, and unsteadily walked out. In the corridor he leaned against a wall and drew a deep breath. As the full significance of the doctor’s words sank in, he was awed, appalled. That great clear brain fated by the momentum of a life’s habit to go on planning--never to be able to put any of those plans into action himself--never able to communicate a plan to an agent or accomplice--but always planning--tirelessly planning--for thirty years or more!... After a time he straightened up and entered the room of Hilton, who was in less pain, but who just then hated all mankind; and with Hilton he had a few grim, direct words. After that he had a few words with Jimmie Kelly, who was waiting below. Then he went back and sat down beside Mary, and briefly he told her what had befallen Loveman. Again they sat in silence, gazing out upon the harbor. Perhaps another hour passed. Then Mr. Morton entered. He was haggard and gray of face. Clifford and Mary rose. “Jack?” breathed Mary, moving toward him. Mr. Morton seemed at first unable to speak. But when his voice did issue, though husky and low, it was controlled and strangely emotionless. “Jack never regained consciousness,” he said. “Jack--Jack has just died.” CHAPTER XXXIII THE STUFF IN MARY REGAN There was again a long silence. Clifford’s heart leaped strangely at Morton’s announcement, as perhaps hearts should not at words of death. Then Mr. Morton spoke once more, still in the low, controlled voice, his words and steady eyes directed at Mary. “I shall arrange to take Jack to Chicago. Since you are his widow, of course you will come along.” And then the emotionless voice of this hard-driving man of great affairs broke with emotion. “And, Mary,--I want you to come because you are my daughter-in-law. I know now you did all a woman could for Jack; I have come to respect you for what you are. You are all I have--I need you, Mary. I hardly need tell you,--since it may make little difference to you, you are so strange,--but all I have will go to you, and your life is to be the life of my daughter.”