They had given portliness to his form, turned his dark brown hair to a silvery whiteness, and seamed his face with many a line of thought and care.
He now wore, too, a full beard, which was also very gray, although not as white as his hair, while the gold-bowed spectacles, which had become a constant necessity, added to the strangeness of his appearance.
He had given up his practice some ten years previous, and was now the sole proprietor of the handsome drug store on Washington street, already mentioned.
But, although Doctor Turner had spoken with the utmost confidence in addressing the lady before him, charging her with her identity, he was nevertheless somewhat staggered when she looked him calmly in the eye and replied, without a tremor, in her full, rich tones:
“You are mistaken, Doctor Turner—if that is your name—mine is not ‘Mrs. Marston,’ and never was.”
“I know that your true name is not Mrs. Marston and never was,” the physician replied, after a moment’s quiet study of his companion; “but you are nevertheless the woman whom I attended at the —— House on the date I have mentioned. You are very little changed, and I could not fail to recognize you anywhere.”
The woman’s face grew crimson, then startlingly white again; her eyes drooped beneath his steady gaze, her lips trembled from inward excitement.
“You have a remarkable memory,” she murmured, and stood confessed before him.
“No better than your own, madame, if I had changed as little as yourself. Time has dealt far less kindly with me. Not a thread of your hair has silvered, your color is as fresh, your face as fair as on the day of our last meeting. Pardon me,” continued the doctor, with a deprecating gesture, “for reminding you so abruptly of the past, but I have never ceased to feel a deep interest in the mysterious case to which I have referred, and I could not refrain from renewing the acquaintance.”
“With what object?” queried madame, with cold dignity.