St. John shook his head.
“That will be quite all,” he answered.
Such things as had to be done, however, Steele did, and two days later, when Alfred St. John took the train for Calais and the Channel, it was with assurances that, while they could not at this time cheer him, at least fortified him against all fear of need.
It was a week later that Cornish sent for the Kentuckian, who was waiting in the court.
“I think you can see him now,” said the physician briefly, “and I think you will see a man who has no gaps in his memory.”
Steele went with some misgiving to the sick-room. He found Marston looking at him with eyes as clear and lucid as his own. As he came up, the other extended a hand with a trembling gesture of extreme weakness. Steele clasped it in silence.
For a time, neither spoke.
While Steele waited, the other’s face became drawn. He was evidently struggling with himself in desperate distress. There was something to be said which Marston found it bitterly difficult to say. At last, he spoke slowly, forcing his words and holding his features in masklike rigidity of control.
“I remember it all now, George.” He hesitated as his friend nodded; then, with a drawing of his brows and a tremendous effort, he added, huskily:
“And I must go to my wife.”