"No," she said shortly. There was a pause. "He is buried?" "Yes." "Let me hear about it." I wished to question her further about her health, but her tone was almost imperious, and I had a curious fear of offending her. Nevertheless I reminded myself that I was a doctor, and my concern for her urged me to be persistent. "But surely you have been ill?" I said. She tapped her foot. It was the first symptom of nervous impatience that I had observed in her. "Not in body," she replied curtly. "Tell me all about the funeral." And I gave her an account of the impressive incidents of the interment--the stately procession, the grandiose ritual, the symbols of public grief. She displayed a strange, morbid curiosity as to it all. And then suddenly she rose up from her chair, and I rose also, and she demanded, as it were pushed by some secret force to the limit of her endurance: "You loved him, didn't you, Mr. Foster?" It was not an English phrase; no Englishwoman would have used it. "I was tremendously fond of him," I answered. "I should never have thought that I could have grown so fond of any one in such a short time. He wasn't merely fine as an artist; he was so fine as a man." She nodded. "You understood him? You knew all about him? He talked to you openly, didn't he?" "Yes," I said. "He used to tell me all kinds of things." "Then explain to me," she cried out, and I saw that tears brimmed in her eyes, "why did he die when I came?" "It was a coincidence," I said lamely. Seizing my hands, she actually fell on her knees before me, flashing into my eyes all the loveliness of her pallid, upturned face. "It was not a coincidence!" she passionately sobbed. "Why can't you be frank with me, and tell me how it is that I have killed him? He said long ago--do you not remember?--that I was fatal to him. He was getting better--you yourself said so--till I came, and then he died." What could I reply? The girl was uttering the thoughts which had haunted me for days. I tried to smile a reassurance, and raising her as gently as I could, I led her back to her chair. It was on my part a feeble performance. "You are suffering from a nervous crisis," I said, "and I must prescribe for you. My first prescription is that we do not talk about Alresca's death." I endeavored to be perfectly matter-of-fact in tone, and gradually she grew calmer. "I have not slept since that night," she murmured wearily. "Then you will not tell me?" "What have I to tell you, except that you are ill? Stop a moment. I have an item of news, after all. Poor Alresca has made me his heir." "That was like his kind heart." "Yes, indeed. But I can't imagine why he did it!" "It was just gratitude," said she. "A rare kind of gratitude," I replied. "Is no reason given in the will?" "Not a word." I remembered the packet which I had just received from the lawyer, and I mentioned it to her. "Open it now," she said. "I am interested--if you do not think me too inquisitive."