“But you mean to say something—for all that?”
“Don’t joke, Doctor Allday! The state of things here is a great deal too serious for joking. Make up your mind to be surprised—I say no more.”
Before the doctor could ask what this meant, Emily opened the parlor door. “Come in!” she said, impatiently.
Doctor Allday’s first greeting was strictly professional. “My dear child, I never expected this,” he began. “You are looking wretchedly ill.” He attempted to feel her pulse. She drew her hand away from him.
“It’s my mind that’s ill,” she answered. “Feeling my pulse won’t cure me of anxiety and distress. I want advice; I want help. Dear old doctor, you have always been a good friend to me—be a better friend than ever now.”
“What can I do?”
“Promise you will keep secret what I am going to say to you—and listen, pray listen patiently, till I have done.”
Doctor Allday promised, and listened. He had been, in some degree at least, prepared for a surprise—but the disclosure which now burst on him was more than his equanimity could sustain. He looked at Emily in silent dismay. She had surprised and shocked him, not only by what she said, but by what she unconsciously suggested. Was it possible that Mirabel’s personal appearance had produced on her the same impression which was present in his own mind? His first impulse, when he was composed enough to speak, urged him to put the question cautiously.
“If you happened to meet with the suspected man,” he said, “have you any means of identifying him?”
“None whatever, doctor. If you would only think it over—”