"_You_, Roger?" "What has happened. Jerry?" "Nothing. Don't ask." "But Jack and I have been sitting up for you. We've been worried." "I know. But it couldn't be helped. Just don't ask me anything, Roger." I was glad enough to have him safe and apparently quite sane. I don't know why I should have considered his sanity at that moment of peculiar importance unless because my own mind had been all the afternoon and evening so colored with the impression of his last appearance. I had become so used to the sense of strain, of tension in his condition of mind, that the quiet, rather submissive tone of his voice affected me strangely. It seemed almost as if the disease was passing, that his fever was abated. "I won't ask you anything, if you don't like, but I think you'd better come to the house and get a hot bath and to bed." He remained silent for a long moment. "I'm not going to the house, Roger. I'm going--" He paused again. "Going! Where?" I asked. "I don't know just yet. Away from here, from New York--at once." "But I can't let you go without--" He held up his hand and I paused. "Don't talk, Roger," he said quickly. "Don't question and don't talk. It won't do any good. I had hoped I shouldn't see you. I was waiting--waiting until the lights went out." "But I couldn't." "Please!" he said quietly, and then went on. "I was going to get some things and go during the night. Now you'll have to help me. Tell Christopher to pack a bag--just a clean suit and linen--and bring it here--And--and that's all." He held out his hand with a sober smile. "Good-by, Roger," he finished. "But I can't let you go like this." "You've got to. Don't worry. I'm all right. I'm not going to make a fool of myself--or--or drink or anything. I've got to be alone--to do some thinking. I'll write you. Good-by." "But Una! What shall I say?" "Una!" He turned away and bent his head. "My God!" he said and then repeated the words below his breath, almost like a prayer, and then, turning, with a wild gesture, "Tell her anything, Roger. Say I'm all right but I can't see her. Say I had a telegram--called West on a Railroad matter--anything. Now go." He caught me by the hand with a crushing grip while he pushed me toward the door. "You will not--?" "I'm all right, quite. Don't fear for me. I'll come back--soon. Now go, old chap. I'll wait for Christopher here. Hurry, please." He spoke kindly but sharply. I could see that argument was of no avail. His mind was made up and with Jerry that was final. Whatever had happened--and from his appearance I suspected a soul-wrenching struggle--he was at least for the present physically safe and entirely sane. But it was with serious misgivings that I slipped past the somnolent Jack and upstairs to Jerry's room, where I found Christopher and together we packed a bag, descending by the back stairs, where I took the bag from Christopher's hand and sent him to bed. In a moment I was in the garage with Jerry.