Next day when at breakfast, Mrs. Mapleton said to Madame Garcia:
“These attacks of indigestion are most annoying. Time after time I get them badly—and then I recover just as suddenly as I am attacked. The first time I had one was a year ago—and I was terribly ill for three days.”
“But the doctor has put you upon special diet,” was madame’s reply. “If you keep to that you will certainly be all right.”
Martin, who chanced to enter the room at the moment, eagerly asked after his mistress’s health.
That same afternoon Sylvia had an appointment with Geoffrey in Madrid. Her lover had been out at Aranjuez, busily engaged all day trying to improve the continuous-wave panel, and was in ignorance of Mrs. Mapleton’s indisposition. They, however, met as she had arranged, in the palm-court of the great Ritz Hotel in the Plaza de Cànovas, and sat down to a pleasant tea.
While chatting together the girl suddenly became very serious, saying:
“There’s something on my mind, Geoffrey—and—well, I hardly know what to say to you.”
“On your mind!” he echoed. “Why, what about?”
“Well, about Mrs. Mapleton. She’s had two sudden and serious attacks on successive nights. Dr. Garcia, whom you met at El Pardo, put it down to indigestion, but—well, I don’t think it is,” said the girl.
“You seem worried about your hostess,” he remarked.