Gleason came on Friday. There was an odd constraint in his manner. At the same time there was a nervous wistfulness that was almost an appeal. Yet he was making, obviously, a great effort to appear as usual.
Not until Burke found himself alone with his guest did he speak of his wife. Then he said:—
"You know, of course, that Helen has—er—that she is not here."
"Yes." There was a subdued excitement in the doctor's voice.
"Of course! Everybody knows that, I suppose," retorted Burke bitterly. He hesitated, then went on, with manifest effort: "If you don't mind, old fellow, we'll leave it—right there. There's really nothing that I care to say."
A look of keen disappointment crossed the doctor's face.
"But, Burke, if you knew that your wife—" began the doctor imploringly.
"There are no 'ifs' about it," interrupted Burke, with stern implacability. "Helen knows very well where I am, and—she isn't here. That's enough for me."
"But, my dear boy—" pleaded the doctor again.
"Gleason, please, I'd rather not talk about it," interrupted Burke Denby decidedly. And the doctor, in the face of the stern uncompromisingness of the man before him, and of his own solemn, but hard-wrung promise, given to a no less uncompromising little woman whom he had left only the day before, was forced to drop the matter. His face, however, still carried its look of troubled disappointment. And he steadfastly refused to remain at the house even for a meal—a most extraordinary proceeding for him.