So they’d cut off his current, Pentecost reflected—for he’d noticed electric fixtures about. Although hardly late enough for twilight, there was much the same thing in this vast and gloomy room with its dark walls and tree-shaded and vine-overgrown windows. Pentecost wanted to see what—if anything—was going on here. Something made him feel that whatever it was might be turned to his advantage. Soon after Haworth left the room, Pentecost saw in the dimness the frail figure of a woman coming toward the table from the further end. Mrs. Temple, probably—the one he’d spoken of. He saw from her unsteady gait and bent figure that she was old and somewhat decrepit, and the momentary clicking of the lamp chimney against the glass shade as she took it off told of her trembling hands. The old woman had reached home with her modest packages of food only a few moments before, and was greatly relieved as she passed down the flagged footpath to the kitchen, to catch a glimpse of Mr. Haworth through a side window of the living room; for it was evidence that he had recovered sufficiently to come downstairs. An instant later she saw that he wasn’t alone. A strange man—at least a stranger to her—was standing near the table and appeared to be watching the young fellow intently as he moved about. Then it came to her that he must be the doctor. Who else could it be? He certainly had the look of one with his close trimmed beard—and watching Mr. Haworth like that. After getting the lamp shade and chimney off, Mrs. Temple groped about and found a match somewhere; but instead of striking it she straightened up—so far as she could—and after a glance at the door spoke in a low voice. “You’re the doctor, ain’t ye?” “No, madam,” Pentecost answered. Mrs. Temple stared blankly at him, seeming for some reason to be astonished. “You ain’t?” she finally said. “Certainly not. Are you feeling ill, madam?” “Me?” looking at him in a surprised sort of way. “No!” After an instant she again bent over the lamp and lighted it, regulating the flame by the little brass disk at the side. Pentecost saw her thin, withered old hands trembling under the light. “Perhaps it’s Mr. Haworth who isn’t well?” he ventured. The old woman looked at him. “You ain’t blind, be ye?” she asked. “Not exactly, madam,” with a trace of a smile. “I saw he wasn’t looking quite right——” “It’s a great sight more’n not lookin’ _right_!” Then she turned to him suddenly. “What’re you doin’ here?” she demanded sharply, yet keeping her voice subdued. “I came on business.” “Well ef it’s money you’re after you can talk to me. He ain’t in no condition to be pestered; you ain’t got much jedgment about ye ef ye can’t see that.” “But my dear madam, I assure you——” “Sh!” She was fussing with the lamp as Haworth came in. “What’s the matter?” he asked, seeing her bending over it. “Won’t it work?” “Yes,” she said, stooping and looking under the shade. “I guess it’s liable to go now.”