"What do you recommend, doctor?"
"There's only one thing to do, Professor Duchard. We must place the girl in a hospital, where she can be taken care of properly and kept under observation."
The aged scientist nodded. "Yes. I thought that would be your suggestion."
"If you'll excuse me," the doctor continued, "I shall use your telephone to make the necessary arrangements."
He left the room.
Beside the bed, Mark Carter still stared dumbly down at the girl he loved. The girl who tomorrow—no, today, for it was nearly morning now—was to have become his wife. He tried to speak, but his throat was too twisted and thick with pain for words to come. His broad shoulders were slumped. His brown eyes blurred with tears. A queer, strained sound of awful grief tore itself from somewhere deep within his chest, like the moan of an animal in torment.
A hand touched his shoulder.
"Come, Mark. We can do no more good here."
Mute, stumbling, broken, Mark allowed Professor Duchard to lead him from the room. Down the hall. Into the old man's study.