He dropped her hand, as though the matter were concluded; but what he had said was not a release, it only sent her back to the beginning of her task. “You love me, don’t you, Joe--just as you always did?” He turned his head away and did not answer. “And if you do, I owe it to you to go back to you. I had no right to throw your love away after I had taken it and pledged you mine. The only way I can make it right--the only thing there is to do--is for me to come back.” He was silent a long time and when he turned toward her he asked slowly: “Do you love me--do you care for me, Jean, even a little bit, as you did when we were married?” In the long silence that followed she did not see the tears that brightened his eyes; but he drew himself up slowly, drawing the pillow under his arm for support. “You don’t care any more, Jean. You didn’t care when you left me and got the divorce; and you don’t care now. But that’s like all the rest; it’s past and over. Maybe sometime I won’t care any more either. You love another man, Jean, and that’s all right, too. He’s my friend and he’s been kinder to me than anybody else ever was. He needs you--I guess you know that. And it’s all right, Jean, it’s all right.” The mention of Wayne had filled her heart with wild tumult, and she made no reply. Joe knew the truth: that she did not care for him, and that if she had ever cared greatly she would not have left him. She could not lie to him; for duty cloaked in deceit would be only false and ignoble. The nurse came in, ending the interview. On her way out Jean asked for Paddock, but he was in the city. So she went back to her boarding house with a troubled heart. CHAPTER XXX THE HOUSE OF PEACE Wingfield, Walsh and Paddock sat in melancholy council in Walsh’s glass box of an office. The Blotter had been at it again. Wingfield had suggested bringing Paddock into the matter, though Walsh had demurred that it was hardly decent to use a preacher as a policeman. It was Walsh’s idea that Wayne--who had used his motor car as a battering ram against the austere walls of the county jail--should be dispatched to a sanatorium for treatment. Paddock shook his head. “Please--not yet!” begged the minister. “But you’ve got to come to it sooner or later. It’s a disease in that boy and we may as well handle it on that basis.” Wingfield, who had consulted several medical friends as to the treatment of dipsomania, confirmed and supported Walsh. Paddock smiled sadly. “I happen to know that he had been tried a good deal of late. He has had a staggering blow or two. He had been straight for several months--made a new record. And he ran against a very serious proposition that was too much for him.” “What’s that?” demanded Walsh bluntly. “He told me last fall that he had decided to go to hell--in just those words--he’s disappointed; he’s found out that it’s not so easy as he thought.” “Um,” grunted Walsh, feeling in his pocket for a cigar to chew.