"Good God! you think ..."
"Look here, Ginger, what's the good of beating about the bush. It is possible—I won't say probable—that Hugh Latimer is on the road to becoming a homicidal maniac. And if, by any chance, that assumption is correct, the most hideous tragedy might happen at any moment. Mam'selle, l'addition s'il vous plaît. You're going on leave shortly, aren't you?"
"In two days," I answered.
"Well, go down and see for yourself; it won't require a doctor to notice the symptoms. And if what I fear is correct, track out Cremer in his lair—find him somehow and find him quickly."
We walked up the road together, and my glance fell on the plot of ground on the right, covered so thickly with little wooden crosses. As I looked away the doctor's eyes and mine met. And there was the same thought in both our minds.
Three days later I was in Hugh's house. His wife met me at the station, and before we got into the car my heart sank. I knew something was wrong.
"How is he?" I asked, as we swung out of the gates.
"Oh! Ginger," she said. "I'm frightened—frightened to death."
"What is it, lady," I cried. "Has he been looking at you like that again, the way you described in the letter?"