Apparently the same majestic composure. Life held many things; yet Richard Cobden couldn’t be sure altogether, that he had not outraged the spirit of friendship in failing to register his protest of word and deed. Of course, the consequences might have been disastrous, but, at least, a certain man-to-man loyalty would have been satisfied. If further tortures were inflicted upon Nagar, Dicky was not informed. The Amritsar story was no longer on the outside; it was in Richard Cobden’s brain and heart. He wrote some of it and his letters were forwarded, but still he conned and brooded. Having held still through the whipping of Nagar, he found it easier to stand in the midst of current events without losing his head, or letting emotion or opinion have right of way. Late in May, a student brought word that Nagar was free and had gone south. This was all that Dicky had been waiting for. Crawling, salaming, flogging, imprisonment and forced testimony had long since become to him a full and bitter cup. At the station, as he waited for his train, a student, edging near, managed to whisper two words: “_Ashrama_, Ahmedabad.” The American’s head bowed slightly. He had meant to go to Ahmedabad anyway. He was not met at the station there, but a servant at the _Entresden_ told him to go at once to the _Ashrama_. He obeyed, and found himself listening for the voice of Mahatma-ji, as he entered, but his eyes searched the shadows of the hall for Nagar, a kind of breathless pain about it all. As the door of an inner room opened, at last, and the native who conducted him drew back, Dicky saw a woman standing in the dimness. Her face, turned toward him, was a mere blur of darkness, but there was a leap toward her in Richard Cobden’s breast. Then he stood before her, in a daze of joy, one hand in hers, one upon her shoulder. “It happened very quickly in New York,” she told him. “A letter saying that I was coming could hardly have reached you before the steamer that brought me----” “But, Miss Claes--New York! What are we to do--no Harrow Street?” “You will know what to do,” she said. “And about the things that were in your rooms. I had them carefully boxed and sent to your mother, who was well when I left. Also your aunt and sister.” He took from his pocket the old dark key to the “parlor” door. She bent and touched it. “Keep it, Richard,” she said, “until I send you another.” * * * * * “And Nagar----” he began at length. “He is here.” “And well? I could get so little word.” “Nagar has been hurt, but is healing. Look----” Dicky turned to find his friend standing behind them at the door. He had felt a presence there, but thought it was the native who had brought him. Nagar’s eyes looked very large in the wasted face.