"Well, Dimsdale?"
Dimsdale coughed. "It was about Sir Giles that I wanted to speak to your ladyship."
"Well?" she said again.
"Sir Giles, my lady, is not himself—not at all himself," Dimsdale told her cautiously. "I was wondering just before you came in if I didn't ought to send for the doctor."
"Why, Dimsdale?" Anne looked straight up into the old man's troubled face, but her eyes had a strangely aloof expression, as though the matter scarcely touched her.
Dimsdale shook his head. "It's not the same as usual, my lady. I've never seen him like this before. There's something—I don't rightly know what—about him that fair scares me. If your ladyship will only let me send for the doctor—"
He paused. Anne's eyes had gone back to the fire. She seemed to be considering.
"I don't think the doctor would be at home," she said at last. "Wait till the morning, Dimsdale—unless he is really ill."
"My lady, it's not that," said Dimsdale. "There's nothing ails his body. But—but—" he faltered a little, and finally, "It's his mind," he said, "if I may make so bold as to say it. I don't believe as he's safe. I'm afraid he'll be doing a mischief to—someone."
His pause was not lost upon Anne. Again she raised her eyes and steadily regarded him.