He turned, his manner all gentleness. "Mrs. Marteen--Mrs. Marteen," he
repeated. She raised her head slightly. "Will you come with me? My name
is Brencherly, and Mr. Gard sent me for you. Come."

She rose obediently. The name he had spoken seemed to inspire
confidence, trust and peace, like a word of power; but her limbs refused
to move, and she sank back again. Brencherly took her unresisting hand
in his, felt her pulse and shook his head.

"Long!" he called. "Get a cab. I'll take Mrs. Marteen; stop somewhere
and send a taxi back for you; it might look queer to see two of us with
unconscious patients."

When his subordinate turned to go, Brencherly leaned toward the drugged
woman, took the bundle from her listless hands and rapidly examined its
contents. A coarse nightdress, a black waist and a worn and ragged empty
wallet rewarded his search. He tied them up again, put the package in
its place and turned once more to Mrs. Marteen. "She's a mighty sick
woman," he murmured. "Well, it's home for hers, and then me for the old
man."

A taxi drove up, and his assistant descended. With his help Brencherly
half supported, half carried his charge to the curb.

Directing the chauffeur to stop at a nearby hotel before proceeding to
Mrs. Marteen's apartment, he climbed in beside the patient, and as the
machine gathered headway, murmured a fervent "Thank God!"

Mrs. Marteen lay back upon the cushioned seat inert and passive. In the