But the surgeon, the next morning, shook his head peremptorily. His patient had been tampered with, and was worse—it was a critical case—all the skill and science of modern surgery involved in it... the brain had barely escaped—by a breath, it might be—no one could tell ... but the boy must be kept quiet. There must be no more agitation. They must wait for full recovery. Above all—nothing that recalled the accident. Let nature take her own time—and the boy might yet speak out clearly and tell them what they wanted—otherwise the staff could not be responsible.

It was to Philip Harris himself that the decree was given, sitting in the consulting-room of the white hospital—looking about him with quick eyes. He had taken out his cheque-book and written a sum that doubled the efficiency of the hospital, and the surgeon had thanked him quietly and laid it aside. “Everything is being done for the boy, Mr. Harris, that we can do. But one cannot foresee the result. He may come through with clear mind—he may remember the past—he may remember part of it—but not the part you want. But not a breath must disturb him—that is the one thing clear—and it is our only chance.” His eyes were gentle and keen, and Philip Harris straightened himself a little beneath them. The cheque, laid one side, looked suddenly small and empty... and the great stockyards were a blur in his thought. Not all of them together, it seemed, could buy the skill that was being given freely for a Greek waif, or hurry by a hair’s breadth the tiny globule of grey matter that held his life.

“Tell me if there is anything I can do,” he said. He had risen and was facing the surgeon, looking at him like a little boy—with his hat in his hand.

The surgeon returned the look. “There will be plenty to do, Mr. Harris. This, for instance—” He took up the cheque and looked at it and folded it in slow fingers. “It will be a big lift to the hospital ... and the boy—there will be things later—for the boy—”

“Private room?” suggested the great man.

“No—the ward is better. It gives him interests—keeps his mind off himself and keeps him from remembering things. But when he can be moved, he must be in the country—good food, fresh air, things to amuse him—he’s a jolly little chap!” The surgeon laughed out. “Oh, we shall bring him through.” He added it almost gaily. “He is so sane—he is a Greek!”

Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending. “How long before he can be moved?” he asked bluntly.

The surgeon paused—“two weeks—three—perhaps—I must have him under my eye—I can’t tell—” He looked at the great man keenly. “What he really needs, is someone to come in for awhile everyday—to talk with him—or keep quiet with him—someone with sense.”

“His father?” said Philip Harris.

“Not his father. It must be someone he has never seen—no memories to puzzle him—yet. But someone that he might have known always—all his life.”

“That is Miss Stone,” said Philip Harris promptly.

“Does he know Miss Stone?” asked the surgeon.

Philip Harris shook his head. “No one knows Miss Stone,” he said; “but she is the friendliest person in all the world—when I get to heaven, I hope Marcia Stone will be there to show me around—just to take the edge off.” He smiled a little.

“Well, she is the person we want—can she come?”

“She sits at home with her hands folded,” said Philip Harris. He waited a minute. “She was my little girl’s friend,” he said at last. “They were always together.

“I remember—” The surgeon held out his hand. “Let her come. She will be invaluable.” His voice had a friendly ring. It was no longer a millionaire that faced him—handing out cheques—but a father, like himself. There were four of them at home, waiting on the stairs for him to come at night—and he suddenly saw that Philip Harris was a brave man—holding out for them all—waiting while the little fleck of grey matter knit itself. He looked at him a minute keenly—“Why not come in yourself, now and then,” he said, “as he gets better? Later when you take him away, he will know you—better for him.”

So the ward became familiar with the red face and Prince Albert coat and striped trousers and patent leather shoes, crunching softly down the still, white room. It was a new Philip Harris, sauntering in at noon with a roll of pictures—a box of sweets, enough candy to ruin the ward—a phonograph under one arm and a new bull pup under the other. The pup sprawled on the floor and waked happy laughs up and down the ward and was borne out, struggling, by a hygienic nurse, and locked in the bathroom. The phonograph stayed and played little tunes for them—jolly tunes, of the music hall, and all outdoors. And Philip Harris enjoyed it as if he were playing with the stock exchange of a world. The brain that could play with a world when it liked, was devoted now, night and day, to a great hospital standing on the edge of the plain, and to the big free ward, and to a dark face, flashing a smile when he came.