“Snatching up the paper to see what could have caused her such agitation, I was horrified to read that the man who was found murdered in our apartment house was now supposed to be Maurice Greywood. Imagine my feelings! As soon as she had recovered sufficiently to be questioned, I begged her to confide in me—her mother. But she assured me that she had told me everything, and that the man who had been killed was a perfect stranger to her and not Mr. Greywood. She insists that the two do not even look very much alike, as the deceased is much larger, coarser, and darker than the young artist. It was, of course, the greatest relief to know this. Had Greywood really been at the Rosemere on the evening she spent there, I should always have believed that they had met by appointment. ‘Yes, I should; I know I should,’ she repeated, as I shook my head in dissent.
“When I was ready to go to church, I was astonished to find May waiting for me in the hall. She was perfectly composed, but a crimson spot burned in either cheek and her eyes were unnaturally bright. I noticed, also, that she had taken great pains with her appearance, and had put on one of her prettiest dresses. I could not account in any way for the change in her behaviour. As we neared the village, she almost took my breath away by begging me to telegraph to Mr. Norman to ask him to come and stay with us! ‘Telegraph him now!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘I would like to see him. If we telegraph immediately, he could get here by five o’clock.’ ‘But why this hurry?’ I asked. She flushed angrily, and kept repeating: ‘I want to see him.’ ‘But, my child,’ I remonstrated, ‘I don’t even know where Mr. Norman is. He certainly is not in town at this time of the year.’ ‘Telegraph to his town address, anyhow, and if he isn’t there it doesn’t matter,’ she urged.—‘But, May, what is the meaning of this change? The last time he came down here you wouldn’t even see him. Do you now mean to encourage him?’ ‘No, no,’ she asserted. ‘Then I shall certainly not send him such a crazy message,’ I said. ‘If you don’t, I will,’ she insisted. We were now opposite the post office. She stopped and I saw that she was trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears. ‘My darling,’ I begged her, ‘tell me the meaning of all this?’ ‘I wish to see Mr. Norman,’ is all she would say. Now, I suppose you will think me very weak, but I sent that telegram. Fred, tell me, do you think the child is going insane?” and the poor mother burst into tears.
“Dear, dear lady, I am sure you are unnecessarily alarmed. If I could see May, I could judge better.”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, eagerly, “that is what I wish. I thought if you came to the house as a visitor you could give me your professional opinion about May without her knowing anything about it. The difficulty is, how can you get to us with your poor leg?”
“Nothing easier,” I assured her. “I can hobble about now on crutches, and with a little help can get in and out of a carriage; so I will drive over to you immediately after lunch.”
“Won’t you come now and lunch with us?”
“No; at lunch we should all three have to be together, and I would rather see your daughter by herself.”
“Very well, then,” said Mrs. Derwent, and gathering up the folds of her soft silk gown she left me.
Early this afternoon I drove over to their place, and found both ladies sitting on the piazza. May greeted me very sweetly, but I at once noticed the peculiar tension of her manner, the feverish glitter of her eyes, the slight trembling of her lips, and did not wonder at her mother’s anxiety. After a little desultory conversation, Mrs. Derwent left us alone. I doubt if the girl was even aware of her departure, or of the long pause which I allowed to follow it.
“May, Dr. Fortescue, whom you have read about in connection with the Rosemere tragedy, is a great friend of mine.” She stared at me with horror. I felt a perfect brute, but as I believed it was for her good I persisted: “I think he saw you when you were in town.” She staggered to her feet; I caught her to prevent her falling, and laid her gently on a divan. “Lie still,” I commanded, looking her steadily in the eye. “Lie still, I tell you; you are in no condition to get up. Now, listen to me, May; I know you have had a shock, and your nerves are consequently thoroughly unstrung. Now, do you wish to be seriously ill, or do you not?” My quiet tones seemed to calm her. “Of course I don’t want to be ill,” she murmured. “Then you must not go on as you have been doing lately. Will you let your old playfellow doctor you a little? Will you promise to take some medicine I am going to send you? I must tell you that, unless you will do what I say, you will be delirious in a few hours.” I thought that argument would fetch her.