“Ye—yes, sir. We are, or at least we were, friends—we were very good friends.”
“Well,” I continued, “it may interest you to know that I was called to see him professionally last night, and found him very ill.”
“Then he is much better now; he is quite recovered, is he not, doctor?” she exclaimed eagerly, springing to her feet.
“I regret to say that he is not better. In fact,” I replied, “Mr. Peyton is—”
“My God, doctor!” she cried, “he is not dead?”
“Miss Morales, Hartley Peyton died at two o’clock this morning.” The young woman buried her face in her hands, and fell back upon the settee in a state of almost total collapse.
“Miss Morales,” I continued, “the point which mutually interests us is that the circumstances surrounding Mr. Peyton’s death were very peculiar and unusual, in fact, suspicious in the extreme. I will go further and state that I have formed a very definite opinion of the cause of his death.”
Thrown completely off her guard by fright, the poor girl moaned, “Oh, doctor, you surely do not suspect that I—you surely do not believe that I could ever have—”
“I am not at present expressing any views as to the peculiar agencies which acted directly or indirectly in causing the unfortunate man’s demise. I have merely stated to you the fact of his death, and that I have arrived at a certain conclusion as to the cause of it.
“Miss Morales, you may place the most implicit confidence in me in anything you may say to me. Any communications you may make shall be held sacred. I have not as yet discussed the unfortunate affair with any one but yourself. It may rest entirely with you as to whether or not I do so hereafter.”