“I should have put Ames wise about that,” Dicky told her. “It was pretty hard to have Pidge hurt that way.” “She brought home the news exultingly,” Miss Claes said. “Hurt, of course--her old sorrow for Rufus Melton, but a compensating gladness, too. You would have to be a woman, to feel exactly what it meant to her. Pidge learned that day that you were close enough in sympathy to share her work. That was light to her out of the depths.” Dicky studied the shadowy face. “Pidge accepts no revelations from the sacred writings,” Miss Claes added. “Only messages of action count with her. Your action in Paris freshened up her life--that you had been brave enough to help her with her task. And how richly Pidge will pay!” “It wasn’t hard to do, but hard to know that it was the thing to do.” “All that matters now is that it is done. One crosses a goal, or one does not. The rest is forgotten.” He told her of John Higgins and _The Public Square_; of his talk in the morning and the day with the files. She inquired regarding details, mechanical and commercial--her same old rational grasp upon materials. Of course, he did not speak of John Higgins’ secret, nor of his own possible purchase. It was a matter of mercantile tradition in the Cobden house not to discuss an incompleted transaction; but he told her of Pidge’s part at the time of the arrest of the editor’s old friend. “John Higgins calls her ‘The Weekly,’” he added. “He says it was Pidge who kept the paper going.” Miss Claes turned to the fire to smile. Dicky didn’t notice. He was lost in the problem of how John Higgins could give half-interest to Pidge, and sell it to himself at the same time.... They were speaking of India. “Of course, I’ve arranged to go,” he said. “Nagar promises the story of the age----” “Nagar sent his message here for you, in case you did not receive word from the _sepoy_ in Paris--‘No haste, but no delay.’” He started. This house of Harrow Street seemed like an office of all the world to him to-night. * * * * * “... The hardest part is with my people--for me to go away again,” he was saying, a little later at the door. “Of course, they can’t understand--my mother and aunt and sister. Everything looks all right, except that--leaving them so soon again.” “Perhaps I can help a little. I’ll go to them often--while you are away.” “That’s quite too good for me to think of,” he said, and told her of Pidge’s call. “Why, Miss Claes, I haven’t known what it meant to be rested and straightened out like this--since Ahmedabad,” he said at last. Her hand was raised before him: “Don’t think about it. Don’t analyze. Just--go to them--and come back when you can. This also is your home always.” XXXIX SEVEN FLAWLESS DAYS