Miss Sinclair rose in excitement from her seat. She had all the indescribable grace of a well-bred American girl. "The fact of your knowing something about me makes matters much easier," she said. "May I tell you my story in a very few words?" "Certainly." "My name, as you know, is Beatrice Sinclair. I am an American, and have spent the greater part of my life in New York. I am an only child, and my father, who was a general in the American army, died only a week ago. It is three years since I engaged myself provisionally to Wilfred Tollemache. We had known each other from childhood. He spoke of his attachment to me; he also told me"--here she hesitated and her voice trembled--"of," she continued, raising her eyes, "a fearful vice which was gaining the mastery over him. You know to what I allude. Wilfred was fast becoming a dipsomaniac. I would not give him up, but neither would I marry a man addicted to so terrible a failing. I talked to my father about it, and we agreed that if Wilfred abstained from drink for a year, I might marry him. He left us--that is three years ago. He has not written to me since, nor have I heard of him. I grew restless at last, for I--I have never ceased to love him. I have had bad dreams about him, and it seems to me that his redemption has been placed in my hands. I induced my father to bring me to Europe and finally to London. We arrived in London three weeks ago, and took up our quarters at the Métrôpole. We employed a clever detective to find out Wilfred Tollemache's whereabouts. A week ago this man brought us the information that he had rooms at Mercer's Hotel. Alas! on that day, also, my father died suddenly. I am now alone in the world. Two evenings ago I went to Mercer's Hotel to inquire for Mr. Tollemache. He was not in, and I went away. I returned to the hotel again this morning. Your message was given to me, and I came on to you at once. The manager of the hotel told me that you were Mr. Tollemache's medical man. If he needed the services of a doctor he must have been ill. Has he been ill? Can you tell me anything about him?" "I can tell you a good deal about him. Won't you sit down?" She dropped into a chair immediately, clasping her hands in her lap; her eyes were fixed on my face. "You are right in your conjecture," I said. "Tollemache has been ill." "Is he alive?" "As far as I can tell, yes." Her lips quivered. "Don't you know where he is now?" she asked. "I deeply regret that I do not," I answered. She looked at me again with great eagerness. "I know that you will tell me the truth," she continued, almost in a whisper. "I owe it to my dead father not to go against his wishes now. What was the nature of Mr. Tollemache's illness?" "Delirium tremens," I replied, firmly. Miss Sinclair's face grew the colour of death. "I might have guessed it," she said. "I hoped, but my hope was vain. He has not fought--he has not struggled--he has not conquered."