“I had understood, however,” ventured Markham, “that, while what you say may be technically true, nevertheless there was an informality, let me say, in that relationship. Perhaps I may state it better by saying that your professional attitude transcended a merely scientific interest in her case.”
I heard Vance chuckle softly; and I myself could hardly suppress a smile at Markham’s verbose and orbicular accusation. But Doctor Lindquist, it seemed, was in no wise disconcerted. Assuming an air of beguiling pensiveness, he said:
“I will confess, in the interests of strict accuracy, that during my somewhat protracted treatment of her case, I came to regard the young woman with a certain—shall I say, fatherly liking? But I doubt if she was even aware of this mild sentiment on my part.”
The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched slightly. He was sitting with drowsy eyes, watching the doctor with a look of studious amusement.
“And she never at any time told you of any private or personal affairs that were causing her anxiety?” persisted Markham.
Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the question his undivided thought.
“No, I can’t recall a single statement of that nature.” His words were measured and urbane. “I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of her nerves was due—so my diagnosis led me to conclude—to late hours, excitement, irregular and rich eating—what, I believe, is referred to vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age, sir——”
“When did you see her last, may I ask?” Markham interrupted impatiently.
The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.
“When did I see her last? . . . Let me see.” He could, apparently, recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. “A fortnight ago, perhaps—though it may have been longer. I really can’t recall. . . . Shall I refer to my files?”