Armstrong was thoughtful. “Do you mean that Helen is really unhappy, or simply upset over some specific thing?”
“I mean that she is suffering, day after day, without relief.”
“You must be wrong,” replied Armstrong, decisively. “She was a little hurt over something I said to her night before last, and I mean to straighten that out; but if there was anything beyond that, I should surely have known of it.”
“You are the last one she would speak to about it,” Uncle Peabody said, gravely.
“Why are you so mysterious? Perhaps you are referring to my work at the library. Has Helen been talking to you about that?” Armstrong demanded, suspiciously.
“Helen has said nothing to me, and does not even know that I have noticed anything,” said Uncle Peabody, emphatically.
“Which shows you how little there is to your fears,” retorted Armstrong, relieved.
“I have no wish to prove anything, Jack,” continued Uncle Peabody. “The fact remains, whatever the cause, that Helen is fast getting herself into a condition where she will be an easy victim for this accursed Italian malarial fever. I sound the warning note; I can do no more.”
Armstrong was unconvinced. “I never looked upon you as an alarmist before,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “I am late for my work this morning, but when I return I will question Helen carefully and arrive at the root of the difficulty.”
“I hope you succeed,” replied Uncle Peabody, feelingly.