I hastened to explain, to protest, to sympathize, to say the idle words with which we waste ourselves and weary mourners, at such times; but the daughter paid little attention to me. She was evidently hurt at my delay; and, thinking it best to spare her my presence, I bowed my head in silence, and left the house. Halt followed me, and we stood together for a moment outside, where his carriage and driver awaited him. "Was she conscious to the end?" I asked. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, yes, yes. It is a pity. I'm sorry for that girl." Nodding shortly in my direction, he sprang into his coupe, and drove away. I had now begun to be very restless to get home. It seemed suddenly important to see Helen. I felt, I knew not why, uneasy and impatient, and turned my steps toward town. "But I must stop at Brake's," I thought. This seemed imperative; so much so that I went out of my course a little, to reach his house, a pretty, suburban place. I remember passing under trees; and the depth of their shadow; it seemed like a bay of blackness into which the night flowed. I looked up through it at the sky; stars showed through the massed clouds which the wind whipped along like a flock of titanic celestial creatures. I had not looked up before, since the accident. The act gave me strange sensations, as if the sky had lowered, or I had risen; the sense of having lost the usual scale of measurement. This reminded me that I was still not altogether right. "I have really hurt my head," I thought, "I ought to get home. I must hurry this business with Brake. I must get to Helen." But Brake was not at home. As I went up the steps, his servant was ushering out some one, to whom I heard the man say that Mr. Brake had left word not to expect him to-night. "Does he ever stay late at the office?" I asked, thinking that the panic might render this possibly. The man turned the expressionless countenance of a well-trained servant upon me; and repeated:-- "Mr. Brake is not at home. I know nothing further about Mr. Brake's movements." This reply settled the matter in my own mind, and I made my way to Stock Street as fast as I might. I could not make it seem unnecessary to see Brake. But Helen--Helen-- The sooner this wretched detention was over, the sooner to see her. I had begun to be as nervous as a woman; and, I might add, as unreasonable as a sick one. I had got myself under the domination of one of those fixed ideas with which I had so little patience in the sick. I could not see Helen till I had seen Brake: this was the delusion. I succumbed to it, and knew that I succumbed to it, and could not help it, and knew that I could not help it, and did the deed it bade me. As I hurried on my way, I thought:-- "There has been considerable concussion. But Helen will take care of me. It's a pity I spoke so to Helen."