“If, knowing the circumstances—and you must know them, after attending Mr. Peyton professionally and having read a certain letter—you believe it to be your duty to turn my case over to the proper authorities, I am willing to have you do so, and shall abide by the consequences. I do not say this as one who has no longer anything to live for, but as one who has become reconciled to whatever fate has in store for her.
“It may be incomprehensible to you, doctor, but life and liberty are especially sweet to me—much sweeter to-day, than they were prior—well, just prior to the events of the day before yesterday. I am capable of forgetting the past and enjoying such happiness as the future may have in store for me. For this much, and for the circumstances which led to our acquaintance, I am indebted to the hot Latin blood with which my father endowed me. Last night, the colder elements of my heredity held full sway and I was afraid. To-day, sir, I am a Morales. Had you known my father you would understand what that means.
“Doctor, it is for you to do as your conscience dictates. If you decide that it is your duty to relegate a certain matter to the authorities for investigation I shall not blame you. Furthermore, I shall not attempt to escape, as was my first impulse when you left me yesterday afternoon. To merely escape punishment would not be enough; I must remain free from suspicion, or life means nothing to me, absolutely nothing!”
The young woman rose from her chair and stood in calm expectancy. Her attitude was so entirely different from what I had anticipated from the character of the letter which I had in my possession, and from what was evidently an exceedingly emotional temperament, that I sat silently gazing at her for some time. I finally rose to my feet and was about to reply, when there came a sharp rap upon the door of my consultation room. I opened the door and found my attendant standing there with a yellow paper in his extended hand.
“Well, what do you want?” I asked, rather impatiently.
“Pardon me for disturbing you, sir, but there’s a man here from the undertaker’s, with a certificate for you to sign, and he says it is important, because the funeral is this afternoon, sir?”
I took the ominous yellow form from the man, closed the door and returned to my desk. With the paper still in my hand I turned to my fair visitor. She paled perceptibly, and I fancied, trembled a little, but returned my gaze unflinchingly, although I was sure she knew.
“Game to the core!” I thought.
I turned slowly to my desk, picked up a pen and wrote—“Ptomaine poisoning—Acute Gastritis,” then, without a twinge of conscience, deliberately signed my name to the “yellow peril” and rang for my attendant.