But I had hardly dropped the paper before she stood before me. I say "she"—it was Margot Vernee, of course—because for some peculiar reason I had expected her. She stood quietly before me, her cameo face, set in the black of mourning, staring straight into mine.
"You know why I have come?" she said quickly.
I glanced at the paper on the table before me, and nodded. Her eyes followed my glance.
"That is only part of it, Doctor," she said. "I was in love with Franklin—very much—but I have come to you for something more. Because you are a famous psychologist, and can help me."
She sat down quietly, leaning forward so that her arms rested on the table. Her face was white, almost as white as the face of that young adventurer who had come to me on the previous evening. And when she spoke, her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
"Doctor, for many days now I have been under some strange power. Something frightful, that compels me to think and act against my will."
She glanced at me suddenly, as if to note the effect of her words. Then:
"I was engaged to Franklin for more than a month, Doctor: yet for a week now I have been commanded—commanded—by some awful force, to return to—to a man who knew me more than two years ago. I can't explain it. I did not love this man; I hated him bitterly. Now comes this mad desire, this hungering, to go to him. And last night—"
Margot Vernee hesitated suddenly. She stared at me searchingly. Then, with renewed courage, she continued.