Her visit to town had certainly done May no harm. On the day of their arrival, she and her mother dined with me at the newest thing in restaurants, and we went afterwards to a roof garden. I had provided a man of an age suitable to Mrs. Derwent to make up the party, and so the evening passed pleasantly for all—delightfully for me. For, to my great relief, May seemed really better. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she flitted gaily from one topic to another, and only occasionally did she give one of her nervous starts. Her good spirits kept up nearly to the end, when she suddenly sank back into the state of apathy, which, alas! I knew so well.

Mrs. Derwent had taken care to inform me that Norman had called late that afternoon to inquire how they had borne the journey, and had been surprised to hear that they were dining out. Was this a hint that I should have invited him also? If so, it was one that I did not mean to take. Having at last succeeded in parting him from May, I was determined not to be the one to bring them together again.

I had decided, in deference to May’s morbid horror of seeing a doctor, that it would be better that her first interview with the nerve specialist should take place under circumstances which would lead her to suppose that their meeting was purely accidental. Thinking herself unnoticed, she would put no restraint on herself, and he would thus be able to judge much more easily of the full extent of her peculiarities. Mrs. Derwent and I had therefore arranged that we should all lunch together on the day following their arrival in town. Atkins’s affairs, however, detained me so long that I was almost late for my appointment, and when I at last got to the Waldorf, I found the doctor already waiting for me.

Luckily, the ladies were also late, so that I had ample time before they turned up to describe May’s symptoms, and to give him a hurried account of what we knew of her experiences at the Rosemere. When she at last appeared, very pale, but looking lovelier than ever, in a trailing blue gown, I saw that he was much impressed by her. Her manner was languid rather than nervous, and she greeted us both with quiet dignity. Notwithstanding the object of the lunch, it passed off very pleasantly, and I am sure no one could have guessed from our behaviour that it was not a purely social occasion. Doctor Storrs especially was wonderful, and was soon chatting and laughing with May as if he had known her all her life. After lunch, Mrs. Derwent and I retired to a distant corner. The Doctor led the young lady to a window seat, and I was glad to see that they were soon talking earnestly to each other. I didn’t dare to watch them, for fear she might suspect that we had arranged this interview. Doctor Storrs kept her there almost an hour, and when they at last joined us she looked quite ghastly, and her mouth quivered pathetically.

As we stood in the hall, waiting for the ladies’ sunshades to be brought, I was astonished and annoyed to see Merritt coming towards us. He caught Miss Derwent’s eye and bowed. She smiled and bowed in return, which encouraged him to join us.

“How do you do? I trust you are well,” he stammered. He seemed quite painfully embarrassed, which surprised me, as I should never have thought him capable of shyness.

“Quite well, thank you,” she answered, graciously, evidently pitying his confusion.

“That was a dreadful affair at the Rosemere,” he bungled on, twisting his hat nervously round and round.

She drew herself up.

“I suppose the Doctor has told you the latest development of that affair?” he plunged on, regardless of her stiffness.

I stared at him in surprise; what was the matter with the man?

“No,” she answered, looking anxiously at me.

“Well, he’s discreet; you see we don’t want it to get into the papers—” he paused, as if waiting to be questioned.

“What has happened?” struggled through her ashen lips.

“I don’t know if you know Mrs. Atkins,” he went on, more glibly; “she’s a young bride, who has an apartment at the Rosemere.”

She shook her head impatiently.

“Well, this lady has disappeared,” he went on, lowering his voice; “and we very much fear that she has fled because she knew more about that murder than she should have done.”

Miss Derwent tottered, and steadied herself against a table, but Mr. Merritt, with surprising denseness, failed to notice her agitation, and continued:

“It’s very sad for her husband. Such a fine young fellow, and only married since May! He has been driven almost crazy by her flight. Of course, it’s difficult to pity a murderess, and yet, when I think of that poor young thing forced to fly from her home in the middle of the night, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Luckily, she has heart disease, so that the agitation of being hunted from one place to another will probably soon kill her. That would be the happiest solution for all concerned.”

The sunshades having been brought, Mrs. Derwent, after glancing several times impatiently at her daughter, at last moved towards her, but the latter motioned her back.

“Excuse me, Mamma, but I must say a few more words to this gentleman. I should like to know some more about Mrs. Atkins,” she continued, turning again to the detective. “What made her think she was suspected?”

“Well, you see, the dead man was a friend of hers, and had been calling on her the very evening he was murdered. The fellow’s name was Allan Brown, and we have discovered that a good many years ago he was credited with being one of her admirers. I guess that’s true, too; but he was a worthless chap, and she no doubt turned him down. At all events, he disappeared from Chicago, and we doubt if she has seen him since. Our theory is, that when he found out that she was rich, and married, he tried to blackmail her. We know that he was drunk at the time of his death, and so we think that, in a fit of desperation, she killed him. It was a dreadful thing to do. I don’t say it wasn’t, but if you had seen her—so small, so ill, so worn by anxiety and remorse—I don’t think you could help wishing she might escape paying the full penalty of her crime.”

“I do hope so. What is her name, did you say?”

“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins.”

“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins,” she repeated. “And you cannot find her?”

“We have not yet been able to do so.”

“This is too dreadful; how I pity the poor husband.” And her eyes sought her mother, and rested on her with an expression I could not fathom.

The detective stood watching the girl for a moment, then, with a low bow, finally took himself off. My parting nod was very curt. Could any one have been more awkward, more tactless, more indiscreet, than he had been during his conversation with Miss Derwent? Was the man drunk? And what did he mean by talking about the Atkins’s affairs in this way?

As the girl turned to say good-bye I was struck by a subtle change that had come over her; a great calm seemed to have settled upon her and a strange, steady light burnt in her eyes.

As I was anxious to have a private talk with the Doctor, I jumped into an automobile with him, for he had only just enough time to catch his train.

“Well, Doctor Storrs, what do you think of the young lady’s case?”

“That girl is no more insane than I am, Fortescue. She is suffering from some terrible shock, but even now she has more self-control than nine women out of ten. What kind of a shock she has had I don’t know, but am sure it is connected in some way with the Rosemere murder. If you ever do discover its exact nature, mark my words, you will find she has been through some ghastly experience and has borne up with amazing fortitude.”

“What do you think ought to be done for her?”

“You will find that there is very little that can be done. Something is still hanging over her, I am sure; in fact she hinted as much to me. Now, unless we can find out the cause of her trouble and remove it, it is useless to look for an amelioration of her condition. In the meantime, let her have her head. She knows what she has to struggle against; we don’t.”

“It’s all very mysterious, but I wish we could help her.”

We had now reached his destination, and, with a hurried farewell, he disappeared into the station.

I had promised Mrs. Derwent to let her know immediately the result of my talk with Storrs, so, without alighting, I drove at once to the hotel. In order to avoid arousing May’s suspicions by calling so soon again, Mrs. Derwent had agreed to meet me in the hotel parlour. I told her as briefly as I could what the Doctor had said. When I had finished, I saw that she was struggling with conflicting emotions.

“What can have happened to her? Oh, it is all so dreadful that I don’t know what to think or fear.”

“Can’t you get your daughter to confide in you?”

“I will try,” she murmured, as the large tears stole down her white cheeks, and, rising, she held out her long slender hand, on which sparkled a few handsome rings. As she stood there—tall, stately, still beautiful, in spite of her sufferings, her small, classic head crowned with a wreath of silvery hair—she looked like some afflicted queen, and I pitied her from the bottom of my heart. But was not my distress as great as hers!

On leaving the poor lady I hurried back to my office, where I found Atkins sitting in a miserable heap. He looked so dreadfully ill that I was alarmed.

“Have you had anything to eat to-day?” I asked. He shook his head in disgust. Without another word, I rang for my boy, and in a quarter of an hour a very passable little meal was spread on my table.

“Now, eat that,” I said. He frowned, and shook his head.

“Atkins, you are behaving like a child; you must not fall ill now, or what will become of your wife?”

He hesitated a minute, then sat obediently down. I drew up a chair also, and, by playing with some fruit, pretended to be sharing his meal. The more I watched him the more I became convinced that something must be done to relieve the tension under which he suffered. A new emotion might serve the purpose; so I said:

“I have just found out some interesting facts about the murdered man.”

He dropped his knife and fork.

“What?” he gasped.

“Nothing at all derogatory to your wife, I assure you; I am more than ever convinced that a frank talk would have cleared up your little misunderstanding long ago.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you the whole story, only you must eat.”

He fell to with feverish haste, his hollow eyes fixed on my face.

“Your wife’s visitor was not a friend of hers, and Merritt (here I strained a point) is sure she has not met him for years. He used to be one of her admirers till she refused to see him, and then he left Chicago and has not been seen there since; but he has a bad record in several other cities. The night he was killed he came to your apartment drunk, and the detective thinks he probably tried to get money from your wife. It seems to me natural that she should have concealed his visit. He was not a guest to be proud of, and, besides, she may have been afraid of rousing your jealousy, for you are pretty jealous, you know.”

“What a crazy fool I have been; I deserve to lose her. But,” he inquired, with renewed suspicion, “why has she run away?”

“Because she found out that the fact that the dead man had gone to the Rosemere to see her had become known to the police, for when I saw her yesterday afternoon I blurted out that the detective did not believe in Argot’s guilt, but was on the track of some female. She at once jumped to the conclusion that he suspected her, and decided to fly before she could be apprehended, and so save her life and your honour.”

“Well, Doctor,” he cried, pushing his plate away, “I feel better. Your news is such a relief. I must now be off again. I can’t rest. Oh, how I wish I might be the one to find my little girl!”

“I do hope you will; only don’t be disappointed if you are not immediately successful; New York is a big place, remember. But till you do find your wife I wish that instead of going back to your apartment you would stay here with me; we are both alone, and would be company for each other.”

“Thank you; if I don’t find her, I’ll accept your offer. You’re awfully kind, Doctor.”

The poor fellow turned up again, footsore and weary, at about twelve that night. He was too exhausted by that time to suffer much, but I gave him a sedative so as to make sure of his having a good sleep.