Nick ruminated. "You don't think it advisable to tell her how things are?"
"I?" The brief word sounded almost hostile. Max resumed his pacing on the instant. "I'm not an utter brute, Ratcliffe," he said, "whatever I may appear."
Nick sent a cloud of smoke upwards. "Would you call me a brute if I told her?" he asked.
"Yes, I should." Curt and prompt came the answer. "What is more, I won't have it done."
"She is a sensible little soul," contended Nick.
"She may be. But it would increase the difficulties a hundredfold. The girl herself would probably suspect something, and that would almost inevitably precipitate matters. No, the only possible course is to leave things alone for the present. The symptoms are slight, and though it is impossible to say from moment to moment what will happen, the chances are that if we can keep Hunt-Goring from doing any further mischief, the disease may remain in a stationary condition for some time. In that case you may manage to get Olga away on this tom-fool expedition of yours to India before any serious development takes place."
"I see," said Nick. "And you are convinced that a serious development is inevitable?"
"Absolutely." Max came strolling back from the window with eyes fixed and far-seeing. "It is as plain as a pike-staff to any professional man. Kersley detected it at once—as I knew he would; and that was before the midnight episode in Olga's room. Yes, it's bound to come. It may be gradual. It may even take the form of paralysis. But with her temperament I don't think that very likely. It will probably come suddenly as a sequel to some shock or violent agitation. But come—sooner or later—it must."
He spoke slowly, with the deliberation of absolute certainty. Reaching the mantelpiece he lodged himself against it and smoked with his eyes on the ceiling.
Nick watched him with a veiled scrutiny from the depths of his chair.
"So that is the verdict," he said at last.