Denning looked at him coldly. "To see that you keep faith, that's all.
Your personal concerns must wait. Have you forgotten that you are to
take the midnight train to Washington? I'm here to see that you do it."

Gard wrenched open the door of the car. "You are, are you? Let the whole
damned thing go!" he cried. "Send your proxies. This is a matter of life
and death!"

"I know it," said Denning; "it is--to a lot of people who trust you; and
you are going to do your duty if I have to kidnap you to do it. You have
two hours before your train leaves. My private car is waiting for you.
Make what plans you like till then; but I'll not leave you; neither will
Langley--he's following you, too. Come, buck up. Are you mad that you
desert in the face of shipwreck?"

Gard turned suddenly, ordered his taxi to follow and got in beside
Denning. His mood and voice were changed. "I've got to think. Don't
speak to me. Get me home as soon as you can."

He leaned back, closed his eyes and concentrated all his energies. In
the first place, Denning was right--he must not desert, even with his
own disaster close upon him. He owed his public his life, if necessary.
As a king must go to the defense of his people in spite of every private
grief or necessity, so he must go now. The very form of his decision
surprised him. He realized that his yearning for another soul's
awakening had awakened his own soul. He had willed her a conscience and
developed one himself. But, his decision reached with that sudden
precision characteristic of him, his anxious fears demanded that every
possible precaution be taken, every effort made that could tend to save