“You know all—you must know all. And a woman’s best friend is always her Doctor,” he grinned, with a suggestive pliancy.
“We are necessary to each other. You and I only want what all New York wants—money!
“Money talks in New York. Life is a hell without money. Now, my dear friend, we are both making money out of her easily. And to me, as well as to you, Mrs. Willoughby’s life is of great importance.
“For my fee bill and your profits depend upon her being kept alive.”
Vreeland started, in a sudden alarm. “Speak out, man! What the devil do you mean?” He saw a black gulf yawning before him.
“She has some concealed source of mental trouble, some eating sorrow, some overmastering secret of her old life,” bluntly answered Alberg. “You, as a man of the world, could easily guess that such a woman should be married. She is rich, still very beautiful, young enough yet—she hardly looks thirty-three—woman’s royal epoch of mental force and bodily attractiveness. Now, she has strange periods of a profound mental depression.
“There are dark storms of sorrow. Her heart action is somewhat impaired, and the waves of passion beat too fiercely in her locked breast.
“You must help me! You may, in this way, save your own future. We must work together. Drugs will do her no good. I am at my wits’ ends!” The gloomy Doctor buried his nose again in the Rudesheimer.
“What can I do?” flatly said Vreeland. “Speak out! Don’t mince matters.”
“Find out her past social history. Find out if she ever was really married. Find out if some one has a hold on her. She is an unhappy woman at heart!” cried Alberg. “It may be that damned cold-hearted cur, Hathorn’s, desertion has cut her to the quick! Find out if she really is a free woman!”