She rose up and stood by him, white as death.
"Are you sure?"
"Morally, yes. As I told you, I have no proof as yet and I should not have told you so soon had I not seen you dying by inches before my eyes. Can you keep up heart now, little despondent?"
She clasped her hands over that wildly-throbbing heart, still not quite sure that she heard aright.
"You are to keep all this a profound secret," said the Doctor, "until I can make my suspicions certainties. They say women cannot keep a secret—is it true?"
"I will do whatever you tell me. Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven for this!"
She had found her voice, and the hysterics threatened again. Doctor Danton held up an authoritative finger.
"Don't!" he said imperatively. "I won't have it! No more crying, or I shall take back all I have said. Tell a woman good news, and she cries; tell her bad news, and she does the same. How is a man to manage them?"
He walked across the room, and looked out at the night, revolving that profound question in his man's brain, and so unable to solve the enigma as the thousands of his brethren who have perplexed themselves over the same question before. After staring a moment at the blinding whirl of snow he returned to the seamstress.
"Are you all right again, and ready to listen to me?"