She stood by while he replaced the book in the bookcase and put out
the lights. Then in the darkness she preceded him up the stairs.

"You'd better take the milk yourself, Lucy," he said. "You're not
sleeping either."

"I've had some. Good-night."

He went in and sitting on the side of his bed sipped at his milk.
Lucy was right. It was not in their hands. He had the feeling all
at once of having relinquished a great burden. He crawled into bed
and was almost instantly asleep.

So sometime after midnight found David sleeping, and Lucy on her
knees. It found Elizabeth dreamlessly unconscious in her white bed,
and Dick Livingstone asleep also, but in his clothing, and in a
chair by the window. In the light from a street lamp his face
showed lines of fatigue and nervous stress, lines only revealed
when during sleep a man casts off the mask with which he protects
his soul against even friendly eyes.

But midnight found others awake. It found Nina, for instance, in
her draped French bed, consulting her jeweled watch and listening
for Leslie's return from the country club. An angry and rather
heart-sick Nina. And it found the night editor of one of the
morning papers drinking a cup of coffee that a boy had brought in,
and running through a mass of copy on his desk. He picked up
several sheets of paper, with a photograph clamped to them, and
ran through them quickly. A man in a soft hat, sitting on the desk,
watched him idly.