“You talk, think and dream of Gee-gee,” interposed Clarence. “We’ve got it all doped out. You are madly jealous. You imagine every man is in love with her. You even attribute to Dan here, ulterior motives.” “I mentioned to Miss Gerald, privately, that a certain very fascinating but nameless young show-girl might be your trouble,” said Dickie. Again Bob did a few deep-breathing exercises, and again he managed to conquer himself. “Don’t you see we’ve simply got to lock you up?” said the commodore. “You’re a menace to the community; you’re a happy home-breaker. You may do something desperate.” “I might,” said Bob, looking the commodore in the eye. Dan overlooked any covert meaning. “We take your case in time,” he went on. “You go into an institution, stay a week, or two—or shall we say, three,” insinuatingly, “and you come out cured.” “Wouldn’t that be nice?” said Bob. They were going to put truth in a crazy-house. That’s what it amounted to. “But how about Gid-up? Did I have an obsession about her, too?” “Oh, as Gee-gee’s chum she is part of the brainstorm and that drags poor old Clarence in,—Clarence who is as ignorant of the existence of Gid-up as I am of Gee-gee.” “And that’s the truth,” said Clarence stoutly. Bob laughed. He couldn’t help it. Perhaps many of the people in jails and crazy-houses were only poor misguided mortals who had gone wrong looking for truth. Maybe some of them had met with that other kind of truth (Dan’s kind and Clarence’s kind) and they hadn’t the proper vision to see it was the truth (that is, the world’s truth). “Got it fixed all right,” went on the commodore. “Doc, up there at the house, has written a letter to the head of an eminently respectable institution, for eminently respectable private patients. It’s not far away and the head is a friend of Doc’s. Dickie saw to the details. It’s a good place. Kind gentle attendants; nourishing food. Isn’t that what the Doc said, Dickie?” “I guess the food won’t hurt _him_” said Dickie, regarding Bob. Maybe, Dickie wouldn’t have minded if Bob had had an attack, or two, of indigestion. “Doc says they’re especially humane to the violent,” continued the commodore, unmindful of Bob’s ominous silence. It seemed as if Dan was talking to gain time, for he looked around where the bushes cast dark shadows, as if to locate some spot. “None of that slugging or straight-jacket business! Doc talked it over with the judge and some of the others. Judge said he’d committed a lot of people who hadn’t acted half as crazy as you have. You see Dickie had to take him into his confidence a little bit and the Doc, too. Doc diagnosed your breakdown as caused by drugs and alcohol.” “So you made me out a dipsomaniac?” observed Bob. “What else was there to do? Didn’t you bring it on yourself?”