"Then," I said, "who is Dr. Turber? What is he to you?"
"Nothing. He was, in 1925, a young medical student. Then, for a short while, he worked for father. He now owns the Turber Hospital—a private institution, a sort of sanatorium. He is, in his way, a genius. A specialist in nervous disorders. And father said he was—or would have been, had he stuck at it—an eminent physicist. But he did not. He left father—he stole, father thought, a large sum of father's money. I don't know the details. They're not important. Nothing was proved. He became—well, you might call him father's enemy. Certainly they disliked each other. I've met him casually several times. A scoundrelly sort of fellow, by his look. And that—of what I actually know—is all."
We were back in the workshop. The television screen still glowed, but it was empty of image. Nanette said gently: "Tell him, Alan, about Dr. Turber, and me."
It gave me a start. Alan said: "He seems to have fallen head over heels in love with Nanette. He had always liked her—"
"I was always afraid of him," she put in.
"And when Nanette grew up, even though then he was father's enemy, Turber came to him—wanted to marry Nanette—"
I could well imagine it. Nanette was tall, slim, with long chestnut hair incongruous in this day of short-haired girls. To me she was very beautiful indeed.
Alan went on: "I won't go into details. His persistent attentions were unwelcome. Father told him so, and Nanette told him."
"I was always afraid of him," she repeated.