He sat down opposite her in a small chair that cracked under his weight, and he smiled a bored and extinguished smile. “A writer, I believe?” he said. “Well, yes, in a way,” answered Lexy, growing a little red. “My wife and I were very much interested,” he went on, with as little interest as a human being may well display. “We don’t have many newcomers here. It’s a very quiet place.” His apathetic manner exasperated Lexy. “But I don’t care how quiet it is,” she observed. “My wife and I like a quiet life,” he said. “My wife asked me to explain, Miss Moran, that she is something of a recluse. Her health prevents her from calling upon you; but she wished me to say that she would be very happy to see you at the Tower, whenever it may be convenient for you to call, any afternoon after four o’clock.” “Thank you,” replied Lexy. “Please thank Mrs. Quelton. I shall be very pleased to come.” And now why didn’t he go away? This visit was apparently a painful duty for him. He had delivered his message, and yet he lingered. “A very quiet place,” he repeated; “but perhaps you are not sociably inclined?” “Oh, I’m sociable enough—at times,” said Lexy. “But at the present time you prefer solitude? For the purposes of your work? As a change from the stimulating atmosphere of the city?” Any mention of her work made Lexy uncomfortable. “Well, yes,” she answered in a dubious tone. “I lived in New York myself for a number of years,” he went on. “I wonder if you—may I ask what part of the city you lived in, Miss Moran?” Lexy hesitated, and she meant him to see that she hesitated. After all, however, it was not an unnatural or impertinent question, and she couldn’t very well refuse to answer it. “In the East Sixties, near the park,” she said. “It wasn’t my own home, though—I was a companion,” she added. She always liked people to know that. She was far from being cynical, but she was aware that this information made a difference—to some people. She was astonished to see the difference it made in Dr. Quelton. He raised his black, weary eyes to her face and stared at her with unmistakable insolence. “Ah!” he said. “I see! I thought so!” There was a moment’s silence. “And you’ve come to Wyngate to—er—to write?” he went on. “Very interesting—very!” Lexy felt her cheeks grow hot. She wished with all her heart that she had not involved herself in that stupid falsehood. It humiliated her so much that she couldn’t answer Dr. Quelton with her usual spirit. He noticed her confusion—no doubt about that. “Poetry, perhaps?” he suggested. “No!” said Lexy vehemently. “Not poetry!” He leaned forward a little, looking directly into her face. “Perhaps,” he said, “you write detective stories?” “Yes!” said Lexy. The doctor rose. “The solving of mysteries!” he said, with his unpleasant smile. “That makes very interesting fiction!”