The Doctor held up his hands meditatively, the ends of the fingers touching, and slowly lifted his shoulders. "In itself it may be serious or it may not. Sometimes trouble of that sort is quiescent for years, and the patient dies of something else. Sometimes it resists treatment, and leads to very serious complications,--physical and mental. I've had cases where it has affected the brain and others where it has led to paralysis. In this case it is likely to be aggravated." "By the diving, you mean?" said Mrs. Tate. "Exactly. That has probably been the cause of the trouble lately--if it wasn't the first cause. It may go on getting worse, or it may remain as it is for years, or it may disappear for a time, or possibly, altogether." Mrs. Tate breathed what sounded like a sigh of disappointment. "Then it isn't so bad as I thought," she said. For a moment the Doctor hesitated. Then he replied: "Yes, it's worse. The mere physical pain that it causes Madame Le Baron is of comparatively little account. I think we may be able to stop that. The peculiarity of the case is the nervousness, the curious fear that seems to haunt her." In her excitement Mrs. Tate almost bounced from her seat. "That is _exactly_ what I said. The poor child hasn't a moment's peace. It's the most terrible thing I ever heard of. And to think that that man--her husband----" "It's always the husband," Tate laughed. "Broughton, why don't you stand up for your sex?" "Percy wants to turn the whole thing into ridicule. I think it's a shame. I can't tell you how it has worried me. I feel so----" "For Heaven's sake, Broughton, I wish you'd give my wife something to keep her from feeling for other people. If you don't, she'll go mad, and I shall too. She wants to regulate the whole universe. I have a horrible fear that she's going to get round to me soon." The Doctor smiled, and bent his bushy eyes on the husband and then on the wife. "It's a peculiar case," he repeated thoughtfully, when they had sat in silence for several moments. "It couldn't be treated in the ordinary way." "How in the world did you get so much out of her?" Mrs. Tate asked. "She's the shyest little creature." "I had to work on her sympathies. I got her to crying,--and then, of course, the whole story came out. As you said, she's haunted by the fear of being killed." "But that's the baby," said Mrs. Tate quickly. "She told me she never had the least fear till her baby was born." The Doctor lifted his eyebrows. "It's several things," he replied dryly, refusing to take any but the professional view.