Dr. Louis Zacharie belonged to that class of medical practitioner, limited happily in number, who do not hesitate to disgrace a noble profession for mere love of lucre. An arrant humbug, he called himself a nerve specialist, and with the help of one or two yellow newspapers ever ready to print any trash so long as it was sensational, had succeeded in getting himself talked about as an authority on nervous diseases. Silly women and foolish men believed he possessed extraordinary powers to cure their imaginary ailments, and flocked in crowds to his waiting rooms. Society took him up. It became the fashion to consult him. Soon he was so busy that he could be seen by appointment only, and money literally flowed into his coffers. A man of magnetic personality, with some skill as a hypnotist, he had no difficulty in persuading his patients that they were in a very alarming condition, and that only the closest care at his hands could save them from total nervous collapse and worse. His real character as an unprincipled charlatan was, of course, well known to all his medical colleagues, but he was clever enough to cover up his tracks and thus managed to escape disciplinary action by the Medical Society. He was a comparative newcomer in New York, but in the West he had blazed a long trail of crookedness. Driven from San Francisco for malpractice, he turned up in Denver, where he again aroused the authorities to action. He fled to Chicago and for a time kept from public notice. Then there was a new scandal, and once more he disappeared, to turn up two or three years later in New York. In the metropolis his peculiar talents seemed to find a more profitable field. Within a short time he found himself one of the most successful and fashionable specialists in the city.
One day he found among the patients in his reception room a big, blustering man who introduced himself as Bascom Cooley. The doctor had already heard of the criminal lawyer, and for a moment was inwardly perturbed, thinking the visit might have some connection with his past history. But Mr. Cooley soon put him at his ease. He had called on behalf of a friend of his, Mr. James Marsh. They understood that he, Dr. Zacharie, was an expert on all nervous disorders. There was a case in Mr. Marsh's immediate family that they believed needed watching. Would the doctor be willing to come to Mr. Marsh's house for a conference? The doctor looked at the lawyer and the lawyer looked at the doctor. Each understood the other. There was money in it—big money. That decided it. Dr. Zacharie went that same night to West Seventy-second Street, and ever since had evinced a warm interest in James Marsh's ward.
Paula's face flushed with annoyance. Going hastily forward, she said:
"I am afraid I cannot see you, doctor."
Not in the least abashed by this chilly reception, Dr. Zacharie advanced into the room, the sardonic smile hovering round his thin, cruel mouth.
"I won't detain you a minute— I have come to say good-by," he said blandly.
Thinking that she might get rid of him the more quickly by a pretense at politeness, Paula said more amiably:
"Are you leaving town, doctor?"
The question was unfortunate for, thus encouraged, he took a seat uninvited, and drew off his gloves with deliberate slowness.
"Just a few words before I go." Fixing her with his penetrating black eyes, he went on: "You know, your case interests me—so much——"