Dr. Lister rose, bewildered, and went slowly toward the door. Surely Mary Alcestis could have known nothing of this! The idea that she might have mental reservations was new. He was certain that she would be shocked by this inquiry and he wished that there were time to prepare her for it. He could, if she wished, ask the stranger to come at another time, or he could excuse her entirely.
He found her in the hall. He had a fleeting impression that she had been for some time where she stood now, by the stairway with her hand on the newel post. But she came forward at once, her smooth and slightly pale face showing only its usual expression of placid content.
"Did you have a rest, mother?" asked Dr. Lister.
"Yes," she answered in her steady voice. "All that I needed."
"There is a literary man here who comes from a New York magazine who wishes to speak to you."
"To me?" repeated Mrs. Lister. It was not a question, real or rhetorical, it was simply a mechanical repetition of her husband's words.
"Yes. He wishes, strangely enough, mother, to ask you about some literary work of your brother Basil's."
"Of Basil's." Mrs. Lister did not seem so much surprised as benumbed. Dr. Lister was now certain that she had heard the stranger, and had tried, and was still trying, to gather herself together.
"He says that your brother sent to his magazine many years ago some remarkable compositions which they published anonymously. Did you know of them?"