pathetically on George Judson's shoulder. "You have one resource left to try now, my boy, the power of constancy, of a faithful and steadfast love—the power of the knowledge that a home is open and a husband waits for her here. That, without one act of violence, one bitter word of recrimination, he confesses at least his own faults and he—waits!"
"Waits? My God! That is an awful sentence, Doctor, to a man like me. I'm a go-getter. I never wait for plums to fall into my lap. I shake the tree."
"This may be the very discipline your character requires. Patience, Mr. Judson, is as great a virtue as your particular god, perseverance, and a rarer one—a more difficult one. Wait."
"Wait!" The great specialist had advised with an impressiveness so great that it had all the authority of a supreme moral imperative. And it was a tribute to the fibre of George Judson that he was able to do this—wait. There was no direct communication, but he knew that Fay had landed in England. And of course she must remain in England, for there was no travel now except backward to America, and she did not travel backward. But England! That was Sir Brian Hook's country.
Then from her mother vague news began to come to his mother. Miraculously she had gained the Continent as if some high influence
