We instantly assented, and he called his carriage, and was driven away. I felt that, at last, we were to see behind one corner of the curtain—perhaps one glimpse would be enough to penetrate the mystery. But, in half an hour he was back again, and a glance at his face told me that we were again destined to disappointment.
"I sent up my card," he reported briefly, "and Miss Holladay sent down word that she must beg to be excused."
Mr. Royce's face fell.
"And that was all?" he asked.
"That was all. Of course, there was nothing for me to do but come away. I couldn't insist on seeing her."
"No," assented the other. "No. How do you explain it, doctor?"
Jenkinson sat down, and for a moment studied the pattern of the carpet.
"Frankly, Mr. Royce," he said at last, "I don't know how to explain it. The most probable explanation is that Miss Holladay is suffering from some form of dementia—perhaps only acute primary dementia, which is usually merely temporary—but which may easily grow serious, and even become permanent."
The theory had occurred to me, and I saw from the expression of Mr. Royce's face that he, also, had thought of it.
"Is there no way that we can make sure?" he asked. "She may need to be saved from herself."