"Wait a moment, Mr. Graham. You must understand that in our prejudgment of these cases we do not arrogate to ourselves infallibility; but that in our treatment of them we do demand for ourselves absolute authority to say what shall and what shall not be done, and the very strictest obedience to that. This is a very peculiar case. It has one element that is altogether unique. Never before have I met it in my practice or seen it in the books. I am doing the best I can with it, and if you do not de—" "That is not it, doctor. I have no suggestions to make to you as to the proper treatment, nor any objection, indeed, to complying with any reasonable restriction; but when you say that I shall not see or communicate with my wife at any time, it seems unreasonable. Does she have no lucid intervals in which I might see her? Does she never think or speak of me—never write to me?" "Yes, Mr. Graham, she has lucid intervals. She speaks of you at times, oftentimes. And she writes to you occasionally, but I have decided that it would not—" "Has written to me? And you have not sent me the letters? Surely, surely, doctor, I am not crazy, that you should withhold letters from me! Have you the letters? Has she written often?" "She has written often; but only on two occasions was there anything except disjointed sentences. She—" "And when was that? And where are the letters?" "I have them," replied the doctor, "but I do not think that—" "I demand to see them, sir! I’m not in your hospital for treatment!" "Very well," said the doctor, "I’ll get them for you." He went to a filing cabinet and took out a package of papers and came back across the room with two sheets of paper which he handed to Hayward, and watched him as he read them. The first was as sweet and gentle and loving a letter as the heart of man could desire. Some of the references in it were a little bit obscure and inaccurate, but Hayward was too much elated with the tender, petting things it said to notice trifles so inconsequential. He revelled in it like a hungry man at a feast. He gulped down its sweetness ravenously: and took the second. What! The first sentence was the jab of a misshapen barb—and every following sentence a twisting of that barb in the flesh. "My God, this is awful!" he groaned. "I am sorry you gave it to me. Have you no other like the first?" "No," said the doctor. "All her other writings have been mere scraps or incoherent mixtures of such things as are in the first letter you have there with such as are in the one you have just read. These are the only ones in each of which her mood was fixed and distinct." Hayward took the first letter and read it over again as hungrily as at first. "In which mood does she seem most to be?" he asked. "In the mood to write that first letter, fortunately; but the case is peculiar in that very fact. I have studied it with—" "Let me see her," Hayward broke in. "May I see her? I must see her!"