"I was dreaming that Max and I," she began, and then, as recollection returned to her, she broke off her sentence, saying abruptly, "Yes, I must speak to the doctor. I must take the risk--all the risk," she added under her breath, and Christina saw that a look of fear stole into her eyes. "Is there something I can do for you?" Fergusson approached the bed, and his voice was as gentle as Christina's had been. Something in the fragile appearance of the woman before them, something in the anguish of the deep eyes, gave both to the man and to the girl beside him, a feeling of almost reverential awe. Instinctively, they realised the presence of some great human tragedy; instinctively, they felt that in its presence, all voices must be hushed, and that no rough things of every day, should be allowed to intrude into the place of grief. The woman in the bed raised herself on her pillow, and looked full into Fergusson's face. "I can trust you," she said. "I believe you will keep your own counsel about--whatever you see or hear in this house." "Certainly I shall," he replied. "When Miss Moore came to me yesterday, I promised her that I would respect your confidence absolutely. I have entered the patient I have just taken to the asylum, as resident at the London address you gave me. I hope that was right? I have a rooted objection to telling deliberate lies," he added a little grimly. "What I told you was quite true," she answered, smiling faintly. "Poor Marion was only here temporarily, her home is in London. Will you tell me about her before I ask you anything more? Is there any hope of her recovery? It all seemed so dreadfully sudden." "She must have had a tendency to homicidal mania for years, probably all her life, and I should think her recovery is extremely doubtful. In any case, she will have to be under restraint for a long time, a very long time, and at present she is quite off her head." "Poor Marion," his listener said sadly. "Poor, poor Marion. There need be no difficulty about her expenses. She must have every care, everything that is necessary, and if anything is ever wanted for her, will the asylum authorities write to Mrs. Stanforth, c/o Mrs. Milton, 180, Gower Street." The doctor jotted down the address in his notebook, then looked again into the white, troubled face on the pillow, and said slowly:-- "There was something else you wanted me to do, was there not? Will you tell me now what it is?" A faint colour tinged the whiteness of her face, for a second her glance wavered before his, and he saw that her hand moved restlessly. "I know he will be angry with me," she said at last, "but--I must ask you to see him. I am so afraid he is worse than he thinks, than we all think. And you have promised secrecy? You have promised it?" she said vehemently, putting out her hands towards him. Fergusson looked, as he felt, profoundly puzzled.