Harriet came again, and this time her husband was with her. He was just as much in love with her as ever—in fact, Sylvia thought that she noted a new and pathetic clinging on his part. They had been to see a great specialist, and still there was nothing definite to be learned about the malady; the doctor, hearing that the couple had journeyed up the Nile, suggested that possibly it might be an African fever, and promised to look up the mysterious symptoms in his books. Wasn’t it extraordinary, exclaimed Harriet; but Sylvia, who could not be deceived for very long, noticed that Beauregard was not so much excited about the African theory as his wife. Suddenly the thought came to her, Could it be that the doctors really knew what the disease was, and would not tell Harriet? Could it be that Beauregard knew, and was helping in the deception? Then—horror of horrors—could it be that he had known all along, and had upon his conscience the crime of having brought the woman he loved into this state? Sylvia’s relentless mind, once having got hold of this problem, clung to it like a bull-dog to the throat of an enemy. Of course such a disease was a loathsome thing; a woman could not very well ask questions about it—yet, what was she to do? Apparently she was dependent upon the man’s honor; and could it be that a man’s notion of honor permitted him, when he was desperately in love, to take such chances with a woman’s life? Sylvia remembered suddenly that Beauregard had made love to _her_. More than once she had actually permitted him to hold and fondle her hand. The mere thought made her shrink with horror. And then came another idea. (How quickly she was putting things together!) Men got this disease by evil living. Then Beauregard must have done the sort of thing that Frank Shirley had been accused of doing! Also Jack Colton had done the same! Also—had not Bates said that there were some of the “Auburn Street crowd” in that place? Club-men, gentlemen, the aristocracy of Harvard! There came back to her the phrase from Harley’s letter: “one of the two or three high-class houses of prostitution which are especially frequented by college men!” How much Sylvia knew about this forbidden subject, when she came to put her mind to it! More, apparently, than her own parents—for had they not shown themselves willing for her to fall in love with Beauregard Dabney? More, also, than Mrs. Winthrop—for had not that lady implied that it was only low and obscure men who permitted themselves such baseness? As you may believe, it was not long before Sylvia’s thoughts came to her own intended husband. What had been _his_ life? What might be the chances of her being brought to such a fate as Harriet’s? Apparently nobody had any thought about it. They had been quick to avail themselves of the appearance of evil on the part of Frank Shirley; but what had they done to make sure that van Tuiver had been any better?