As he took her extended hand in greeting he glanced quickly at her—her palm was dry and hot to the touch. Instantly his fingers sought her pulse.
“Come, Judith, this won’t do,” he remonstrated gravely. “Your pulse is pounding like a millrace. I have cautioned you before—”
“Please, doctor, don’t scold,” she pleaded. “It is only caused by momentary excitement. I’ll calm down after a talk with you.”
“Will you?” doubtfully. “Well, fire away.”
Judith wheeled a chair around. “Do sit down,” she coaxed, “I can’t think of a thing to say while you stand with that air of bolting away.”
McLane laughed as he followed her wishes, placing the black bag within reach. “I am all attention,” he declared. “Go ahead.”
“Can kleptomania be cured?”
McLane stared at her; the question was unexpected.
“Not permanently,” he replied, and Judith, who was toying with a fan which was attached to a silk cord about her neck, raised it to her lips to hide their trembling.
“What are its symptoms?” she asked.