It was not until the next afternoon that he realised that he must tell her. After long puzzling over the problem, he went to Doctor Brinkerhoff’s.
The Doctor was out, and did not return until almost sunset. When he came, the Master was sitting in the same uncomfortable chair that, with monumental patience, he had occupied for hours.
“Mine friend,” said the Master, with solemn joy, “look in mine face and tell me what you see.”
“What I see!” repeated the Doctor, mystified; “why, nothing but the same blundering old fellow that I have always seen.”
The Master laughed happily. “So? And this blundering old fellow; has nothing come to him?”
“I can’t imagine,” said the Doctor, shaking his head. “I may be dense, but I fear you will have to tell me.”
“So? Then listen! Long since, perhaps, you have known of mine sorrow. Of it I have never said much, because mine old heart was sore, and because mine friend could understand without words.”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, eagerly, “I knew that the one you loved was taken away from you while you were both very young.”
“Yes. Well, look in mine face once more and tell me what you see.”