She looked up again with flashing eyes, “Speak plainly,” she said. “How can I help you?” “Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art will do much, but not all. For example, something must have occurred—something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health—to frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here to consult me. Is that true?” She clasped her hands in her lap. “That is true!” she said eagerly. “I begin to believe in you again.” “Very well. You can’t expect me to find out the moral cause which has alarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical cause of alarm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence) I can do no more.” She rose, and took a turn in the room. “Suppose I tell you?” she said. “But, mind, I shall mention no names!” “There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.” “The facts are nothing,” she rejoined. “I have only my own impressions to confess—and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you—I will begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it, _they_ won’t do much to help you.” She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began the strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor’s ears. CHAPTER II “It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,” she said. “It is another fact, that I am going to be married again.” There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her. Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile—there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting on his first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplace patients and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him, with a certain tender regret. The lady went on.