"Something terrible has befallen Sybil Lamotte," she goes on, gradually regaining a measure of her natural tone and manner. "I need an adviser, or I had better say, a confidante, for it amounts to that. You know Sybil, and you know poor Ray. You are, I believe, a capital judge of human nature. This morning, just after you left, as you know, Mr. Lamotte and his son called here, and Frank put in my hand this note from Sybil." For the first time he observes the letter which she holds between her two hands. "For reasons stated on the outside of the envelope, which was enclosed in another, I did not break the seal until—now. It may seem like violating Sybil's confidence, but I feel justified in doing what I do. I have no one to advise me, Aunt Honor being worse than myself in a crisis like this; and I believe that both Sybil and I can trust you. Dr. Heath, please read that letter."
He looks at it doubtfully, but does not take it from her extended hand.
"You are sure it is best?" hesitatingly. "You wish it?"
"I wish it," with a touch of her natural imperiousness; "I believe it is best."
Silently he takes the letter from her hand, silently reads the lines upon the envelope, while she thinks how sensible he is not to have uttered some stereotyped phrase, expressive of his sense of the high honor she does him by giving him so much of her confidence.
Still in silence, he opens and reads the letter, then lays it down and thinks.
At last she grows impatient. "Well," she exclaims, "are you, too, stricken with something nameless?"
He leans toward her, his arm resting upon the table between them, his eyes fixed gravely upon her face,
"Miss Wardour, does your faith in your friend justify you in complying with her wishes?"
"Most assuredly," with a look of surprise.