“My wife said so; that is sufficient for me.”
“She must surely have made the charge in delirium,” I said.
“She is not delirious, nor has she been.”
“Where was the operation performed?”
“She refuses to tell me.”
I thought very bard for a minute. What kind of a predicament was this? I then said to him, “This is a serious and vital matter, sir, for both of us. Any mistake could not fail to have momentous consequences. Suppose you take me to confront your wife. It is probably a case of mistaken identity, and when she sees me, she will most certainly be able readily to rectify this awful blunder. And so sure am I of the result that I pledge you my word to accompany you without violence or outcry.”
After a moment’s reflection he said, “I accept your proposition.”
His carriage was waiting at the door. Evidently he had been desperate when he came, and fully prepared to face the consequences of his desperation. We drove together to his home.
In my complete certainty of my position I feasted my eyes on the luxurious furnishings, the costly rugs—I’m a lover of rugs, you know, and a bit of a connoisseur—and the exquisite bric-a-brac and paintings. Moreover, I now knew with whom I was dealing, though that fact I concealed.
We went up to the sickroom. A beautiful woman, desperately ill and pale as death itself, lay motionless upon the pillows. As we softly entered the room, she turned her eyes toward us, too weak to move her head.