She spoke in all seriousness. Doctor Haslam succeeded with difficulty in restraining a smile.
“You don't imagine for a moment,” he said, “that the young man intended keeping his oath.”
“Don't I? You should have seen the look on his face when he spoke it.”
“Well?”
“Well, I couldn't sleep with the thought that a man was going to kill himself on my account. It makes me shudder. I'd see his face in my dreams every night of my life. Then if a note were really found in his hands, addressed to me, the whole thing would come out in the newspapers, and wouldn't that be horrible? Of course I couldn't tell my cousins anything about his threat, so I invented my excuse quickly, packed a small handbag, disguised myself with Cousin Laura's hat and veil, and took the same train that Tom took. I've kept my eye on him ever since, and he has no idea I'm on his track. The only time I lost was in hurrying home with my handbag to see my aunt, but I didn't even do that until I'd followed him on Chestnut Street to the down-town box-office of this theatre and seen him buy a seat, which I later found out from the ticket-seller was for to-night. So here I am, and there he is.”
“Where?”
“Standing over there by that wire thing like a fence next the street.”
The doctor looked over as she motioned. He soon recognized the slender figure, the indolent attitude of Tom Appleton, the blasé young man whom he was so accustomed to meeting at billiard-tables, in clubs, or hotels. A tolerant, amiable expression saved the youth's smooth, handsome face from vacuity. He was dressed with careful nicety.
“But,” said Haslam, “a man about to take leave of this life doesn't ordinarily waste time going to the opera.”
“Why not? He probably came here to think. One can do that well at the opera.”