Mrs. Nash raised her head. "I recall Paul's father speaking to me some years ago about a young man in whom he was interested. His name was Guy Trenholm." "It is the same person," declared Roberts. "Trenholm owes much to Abbott's generosity; he practically educated him. Now, Mrs. Nash, be sure and take the medicine prescribed, and, above all, mind what the nurse tells you." He chuckled at her disgusted expression and, with a graceful bow, left the room. But Roberts had ceased smiling when he went down the staircase and out of the house. Mrs. Nash's condition puzzled him. He had been her family physician ever since her father, Owen Carter, the senior Congressman from his state, had taken up his residence in Washington. A woman spoiled, self-willed, she had held undisputed sway in her father's household, while her frail mother had been content with the role of invalid. Mrs. Nash had allowed her eccentricities to grow upon her and Washington society had enjoyed many a quiet laugh at her expense. Her social position, her wealth, as well as her undoubted good looks and her quick wit, made her a welcome visitor. Rumors of her approaching marriage with this dignitary and that had been frequently circulated, in spite of her declaration that she preferred to be an old maid. Her marriage, therefore, to the Reverend Alexander Nash had proved something of a sensation in their small world. That her ambitions had been satisfied on becoming the wife of an unknown Doctor of Divinity, her friends and acquaintances found hard to believe. Roberts went down the path immersed in thought. In a telephone talk that morning, Representative Carter had expressed great anxiety about his daughter's condition and begged the doctor to see her again and curb her imprudent tendencies to neglect her health. Thereupon Roberts had turned over his patients in Washington to his assistant and motored out to Abbott's Lodge. A cause for wonderment, which persisted even after his talk with Mrs. Nash, was why her father had shown such anxiety about her and not her husband. Roberts was still pondering deeply when he reached the garage and Pierre's respectful, "_Bonjour_, Monsieur," brought him back to his errand. "Morning, Pierre," he replied. "Mrs. Nash wishes you to run into Washington with this note for her husband." Pierre wiped his fingers on some waste and taking the white envelope gingerly, tucked it in the pocket of his jumper. "Yes, Monsieur, and when shall I start?" "Now, I suppose. Have you lunched?" "Mrs. Corbin gave me some sandwiches and tea." Pierre picked up his chamois and can of metal polish. "That car of yours, Monsieur, it is good, but it has a slapping piston." "Impossible!" Roberts went over to his roadster and lifted the hood. The car was a new investment and his pride. "It was the pump you heard, Pierre, and not a piston."