“Mr. Oakley.”

“What about Oakley, dear?”

She looked at him from under her long lashes while the color slowly mounted to her cheeks.

“You are not going to tell him what you think you know?”

The doctor smiled.

“I wish you would grant me the possession of ordinary sense, Constance. I am not quite a fool.”

“You are a precious,” she said, kissing him.

“Thank you. What message shall I give Oakley for you?”

“None.”

“None?”