“It would make everything so right. I have been thinking of this ever since you began to get better, before, too. You will always be delicate, need a certain amount of care. No one could give it to you as well as I. Why not? I have almost the best practice in Pineland, and I deserve it, too. I’ve worked hard in these eleven years. I’ve given an honest scientific trial to every new treatment. I’ve saved scores of lives....” “Your own in jeopardy all the time.” “She asked me to do it, begged me to do it....” He spoke wildly. “Gabriel Stanton was inflexible, the marriage was to be postponed whilst Mrs. Roope was prosecuted, or the case fought out in the Law Courts. And every little anxiety or excitement set her poor heart beating ... put her in pain ... jeopardised her life. I’d do it again tomorrow. I don’t care who knows. You’ll have to tell if you want to. If you married me you couldn’t give evidence against me....” His smile startled me; it was strange, cunning. It seemed to say, “See how clever I am,—I have thought of everything.” “There, I have had that in my mind ever since you began to be better.” “It was not because you have fallen in love with me, then?” I scoffed. “When you are Margaret, I love you ... I adore you.” The whole secret flashed on me then, flashed through his strange perfervid eyes. We were in full view of a curious housemaid at a window, but he kneeled down by my couch, as he had kneeled by Margaret’s. “You are Margaret. Tell me the truth. There is no other fellow now. You always said if it were not for Gabriel Stanton....” I quieted him with difficulty. I saw what was the matter. Of course I ought to have seen it before, but vanity and Ella obscured the truth. The poor fellow’s mind was unhinged. For years he had brooded and brooded, yet worked magnificently at his profession, worked at making amends. The place and I had brought out the latent mischief. Now he implored me to marry him, to show him I was glad he had carried out my wishes. “Your heart is now quite well ... I have sounded it over and over again. You will never have a return of those pains. _Margaret...._” I got rid of him that day as quickly as possible, not answering yes or no definitely, marking time, soothing him disingenuously. Before the next day was at its meridian I had hurriedly left Carbies. Left Pineland, all the strange absorbing story, and this poor obsessed doctor. I left a letter for him, the most difficult piece of prose I have ever written. I was writing to a madman to persuade him he was sane! I gave urgent reasons for being in London, added a few lines, that I hoped he would understand, about having abandoned my intention of turning my morphia dreams into “copy”; tried to convey to him that he had nothing to fear from me....