On this particular night when the doctor came upstairs after wine, accompanied by the rest of the men of the party, Mrs. Everett seemed to draw him to her side by her watchful and excited glances.
There was something about the man which could never withstand an appeal of human need—he went straight now to the widow's side as a needle is attracted to a magnet.
"Well," he said, drawing a chair forward, and seating himself so as almost to face her.
"You guessed that I wanted to see you?" she said eagerly.
"I looked at you and that was sufficient," he said.
"When can you give me an interview?" she replied.
"Do you want to visit me as a patient?"
"I do not—that is, not in the ordinary sense. I want to tell you something. I have a story to relate, and when it is told I should like to get your verdict on a certain peculiar case—in short, I believe I have got a clue, if only a slight one, to the unravelling of the mystery of my life—you quite understand?"
"Yes, I understand," replied Dr. Rumsey in a gentle voice, "but, my dear lady, I am not a detective."
"Not in the ordinary sense, but surely as far as the complex heart is concerned."