“I know you now. You are the doctor!” cried he. “Stop! Tell me, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with my wife!”
“Your wife?” I cried, dumbfounded. “Who are you?”
He struggled to his feet and leered at me. His face twitched with emotion.
“I am Jermyn Estabrook,” he gasped.
You may imagine my astonishment when, after struggling with a man who had pursued me through the dark paths of the park like one who sought my life, he whom I had never seen before should now appeal to me as if I could lift him from the depths of some profound despair. He had cried out that I must tell him what was wrong with his wife. I had never so much as set eyes upon her. He had said he was Jermyn Estabrook. And though, with my face close to his, I could see that he was covered with bits of dead leaves and mud and the sweat of his desperate struggle, I felt that he told the truth.
“I have never been to your home but once in my life,” I said. “You were watching me on that occasion—to-night. That is plain. I did not go in.”
“I have made a mistake,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I have been through torments beyond telling. Something is going on—some ghastly, horrible tragedy within my own walls.”
The word caught my ear; I gripped his shoulder.
“Listen, Estabrook,” I cried. “It is no time for us to mince matters. I am attending Marbury’s little child. It is an odd form of meningitis. I am fighting to save her. Do you understand?”
He shook his head stupidly as if worn dull by mental agony. “What of her?” he asked.