"Then--?" Philip Harris turned a quick eye on him.

But the man shook his head. "Wait," he said--and again, slowly, "wait."

The darkness closed around them, but they did not break it. A faint
questioning honk sounded, and Philip Harris turned. "The car is ready,"
he said, "to take you back."




XIX

A WOMAN IN THE GARDEN

"When it comes, it may come all at once," the surgeon had said, "and
overwhelm him. Better lead up to it--if we can--let him recall it--a bit
here--a bit there--feel his way back--to the old place--to himself."

"Where my child is," said Philip Harris.

"Where your child is," repeated the surgeon, "and that clue runs through
the frailest, intangiblest matter that fingers ever touched." He had
looked down at his own thin, long, firm fingers as if doubting that they
could have held that thread for a moment and left it intact.

Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. "There has not
been a word for seven weeks," he said, "not a breath--"