After they were seated, the Doctor went on gravely. “He is in a bad state. I do not understand. I came here expecting to find grief. I find instead fear—horror.”
“I have felt that from the first,” responded John. “I have tried to be of help to him, but when I am here he seems to be more nervous than in my absence. He never mentions her name, never asks for her.”
“Tell me of her, John.”
“She went away with that man, Dick Fenway,” John began. “He took her first to Atlantic City with a party of his friends. I followed them; you know that. What I would have done if I had found them I don’t know—killed him perhaps, but I am not sure. Later there was a scandal about them at Narragansett Pier, and she left him.”
“Left him?”
“For another man—a man old enough to be her father and rich enough to grant every wish of her heart. Oh, it’s a hellish thing to talk about, Doctor. I met this Dick Fenway about that time, and upon my word I was almost sorry for the little beast. He loved her in his way; God knows how much of the fault was his; I can’t pretend to say. The whole miserable business sickens me, but every detail, every word of scandal, every report of her growing extravagance and moral degradation stays in my mind!”
“I know.” The Doctor put his hand gently on John’s arm, and after a moment John continued:
“Wherever she goes the papers are full of her exploits. She has been through scandal after scandal, and has come out more daring, more reckless than before. A month ago I saw her. She was crossing Broadway in a great touring car. She saw me and”—John’s voice broke—“and—she laughed.”
“You love her, John?”
“Yes. I am ashamed to say so, but I do.”