Immediately upon reading the news of the accident, she had been fortunate in making connections with the best westbound train of the day. Her frantic telegram of inquiry, addressed to the hospital when en route, had been handed to Merrick who had wired reassuringly to her train. She had received the message at ten. It did not greatly surprise her to have a telegram from him, knowing that he would have been likely to see the account of the disaster while in Paris.
“Oh, Bobby—how wonderful!” she exclaimed tearfully, when he told her that everything was favourable to a prompt recovery. “Can I see her?”
“Better not tonight. She will be brighter in the morning.”
“And I suppose you two blessed things have found that you’re necessary to each other, haven’t you?”
“Well—not yet,” he said, hesitatingly. “You see, I have her at a rather awkward disadvantage. I performed the operation myself. I don’t wish to make capital of any obligation she might feel toward me. In fact—she doesn’t know I’m here, at all.”
Marion was pink with indignation. The taxi-driver stood by the open door of the cab waiting for them to step in; but she ignored the gesture and blazed at her compatriot angrily.
“Bobby Merrick—I think that’s simply disgraceful! You’ve always kept the dear soul in the dark and made her feel irresponsible. And here you are again with some more of your wretched secrets! Well—we’ll see if you’re going to use her that way, this time! When I see her in the morning, I mean to tell her! You don’t need to think I’m a party to any more of these mysteries!”
He rather suspected that she meant it. On the short ride over to the Quirinal where he had reserved a room for her, he told her as much as he could explain of the operation, attempting to divert her attention from her annoyance over his attitude towards Helen.
“I am leaving in the morning for Vienna,” he said, after making sure she was receiving proper attention at the hotel desk. “Doctor Donelli can do the dressings as well as I. There is no danger now, and no reason for my staying on; especially since you seem bent on informing her.”
“It’s the only decent thing to do,” retorted Marion obdurately. “She has a right to know … Well—give my love to Jack and tell him I’ll be back when Helen doesn’t need me any more. I wonder if she’ll forgive me!”
“I hope so, my dear; but I wouldn’t bet much on it … Goodbye!”
Later in the evening he had a consultation with Donelli and felt confident he was leaving his patient in competent hands. He stepped into Helen’s room, found her sleeping, took her hand and held it for a moment, and walked out with only a nod for the nurse who had relieved Julie. At the desk he scribbled a note to her, thanking her for “exceptional faithfulness and originality,” and enclosed a substantial tender of gratitude (part of which she used to defray a three months’ vacation in Switzerland).
Reconciliation was effected promptly and silently, the next morning, when Marion called. They kissed each other and wept a little. Julie excused herself and left them alone together.
“Helen, dear,” whispered Marion, the moment the door had closed, “you could never guess who did your operation?”
“Oh, yes, I could,” drawled Helen, smiling.
“Good! He thought he had such a secret! When did you find out?”
She laughed—with a little wince of pain.
“He talked some Italian for me, yesterday.”
“And you recognized his voice?”
“Instantly.”
“He doesn’t know it; I am confident.”
“Well, he probably will before the day is over.”
Before Marion had a chance to reply, Doctor Donelli came bustling in, trailed by Julie, and smilingly approached the bedside.
Helen looked up inquiringly.
“Isn’t Doctor Merrick coming this morning, Miss Craig?”
Julie shook her head.
“He left for Vienna at seven, dear,” said Marion. “I told him I intended to tell you he was here, so—off he goes!”
“How like him!” said Helen, smiling.
XXII
Doctor Merrick’s unusual capacity for pinpoint concentration upon problems of scientific research was not quite up to par during his collaboration with Doctor Arnstadt. The Viennese surgeon seemed every way satisfied, and rejoiced in his close association with his young American colleague, but Bobby was too restless and distracted to make the most of his opportunity.
Jack Dawson had been quick to understand his friend’s mood.
“Bobby,” he advised, one early August night, as they were finishing their dinner in the low-ceilinged grill room at Hangel’s, “I don’t want to meddle, but I believe you really ought to run over to the Imperial City and do your stuff. You’re getting to be damned poor company, and I think you have something weighty on your conscience.”
Bobby nodded soberly.
“You’re right! … I’ll go—tomorrow!”
Marion had stayed on in Rome. Jack’s daily letter from her constituted the log of Helen’s rather tedious trip through convalescence.
It was a great day in Vienna—demanding a bit of celebration that night—when the news came that she had sat up for half an hour.
Now she had been wheeled out into the shady patio … Now she had taken a short walk … Now they were both at the Quirinal, and every afternoon Helen was down in the garden, in the hotel court … Now she was taking drives in the evening … You could hardly find the scar, any more … Helen was so happy.
On the morning of the sixth of August, Jack and Doctor Arnstadt saw Bobby off. After the train had slipped quietly out of the station, Jack went to the telegraph booth and wired to Marion. He did not tell her it was a secret that Bobby was on the way. She would not have kept it, in any event. She was all done with riddles.
“Who do you think’s coming?” she cried, romping into Helen’s room waving her telegram.
“When does he arrive?”
“Tomorrow afternoon—about six! … Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I’m going, dear! I don’t feel quite up to it.”
“Why—the very idea! … You can’t! … When you know he’s on the way? … He’ll
