One day late in August Simmy Dodge burst in upon him. He had motored in from Southampton and there was proof that he had not dallied along the way. His haste in exploding in Thorpe's presence was evidence of an unrestrained eagerness to have it over with. "My God!" he shouted, tugging at his goggles with nervous hands from which he had forgotten to remove his gloves. "You've got to put a stop to this sort of thing. It can't go on. She must be crazy,—stark, raving crazy. You must not let her do this—" "What the devil are you talking about?" gasped Thorpe, acutely alarmed by the little man's actions, to say nothing of his words, which under other circumstances might have been at least intelligent. "Anne! Why, she's—What do you think she's going to do? Or maybe you know already. Maybe you've put her up to this idiotic—Say, what _do_ you know about it?" He was glaring at his friend. The goggles rested on the floor in a far corner of the consultation-room. "In heaven's name, Simmy, cool off! I haven't the remotest idea of what you are talking about. What has happened?" "Nothing has happened yet. And it mustn't happen at all. You've got to stop her. She has threatened to do it before, and now she comes out flat- footed and says she's going to do it,—absolutely, irrevocably, positively. Is that plain enough for you? Absolutely, irrev—" "Would you mind telling me what she is going to do?" Simmy sat down rather abruptly and wiped his moist, dust-blackened brow. "She's going to give away every damned nickel of that money she got from old Mr. Thorpe,—every damned nickel of it, do you hear? My God! She _is_ crazy, Brady. We've got to put her in a sanitarium—or torium—as soon as we can get hold of—Hi! Look out!" Thorpe had leaped forward and was shaking him furiously by the shoulders. His eyes were wide and gleaming. "Say that again! Say it again!" he shouted. "Say it, damn you, Simmy! Can't you see that I want you to say it again—" "Say—it—again," chattered Simmy. "Let go! How the dickens can I say anything with you mauling me all over the—" "I'm sorry! I will—try to be sensible—and quiet. Now, go on, old chap,—tell me all there is to tell." He sank into a chair and leaned forward, watching every expression that crossed his friend's face—watching with an intensity that finally got on Simmy's nerves.