(She rises and crosses the room nervously; goes to the window, and stands between the long lace curtains, looking out. She consults her watch; speaks.)

Mrs. Thorne. It is not so very late! Hardly past six o’clock yet. What can be the matter with me? I must not become a worrier. A doctor’s wife can never afford to be that.

Enter Maggie.

Maggie. Shall I serve dinner, ma’am?

Mrs. Thorne. The Doctor has not come, Maggie. We must wait—Jane will be careful not to burn the soup.

(Rises and looks again restlessly out of the window; calls:)

Maggie!

Maggie. Ma’am?

Mrs. Thorne. When you went up to light the Doctor’s candles, how did Laddie seem? Did Molly say?

Maggie. Just the same, she said. He does seem sort of miser’ble.

[Exit Maggie.

Mrs. Thorne. (takes up a magazine and tries, in vain, to read; sighs, and lays it down; takes up the little lace collar and tries to sew; lays that down; rises). I’ll run up again and look at the child for myself.

Enter Maggie.

Maggie. Mrs. Fayth, ma’am.

Enter Mrs. Fayth (pale, sweet-faced, delicate, with the languorous step of the half-cured invalid. She is in carriage dress, with a long, dove-colored opera cape—rich, but plain in design. She throws off the cape at once).

[Exit Maggie.

Mrs. Thorne (warmly embracing her friend). Why, Mary Fayth! You? At this time of night!

Mrs. Fayth. Yes. I—Mary Fayth—isn’t it wonderful? I haven’t been out after sundown before for six years.... Is the Doctor in?

Mrs. Thorne. He hasn’t come yet. I am waiting for him. We never can tell.

Mrs. Fayth. Doesn’t the dinner get cold?

Mrs. Thorne. The dinner is subject to chronic bronchitis and acute pneumonia.

Mrs. Fayth. (laughs merrily). Acute pneu-mo-nia is good.... You were always clever.

Mrs. Thorne. But I don’t fret. A doctor’s wife can never do that.... Give me your cape, dear. You’ll wait for him.

Mrs. Fayth. I did want to surprise him. He would be so pleased. My husband calls me Doctor Thorne’s miracle. But never mind. I can’t wait for him. I’m on my way to the Hospital Fair.... Think of that! I’m to be let stay till half-past eight o’clock. Fred is to meet me there, and we’re to dine at the cafÉ with the crowd and see the tableaux.... Think of it!—like common, vulgar, healthy people. Isn’t it wonderful? To be half alive! I have been half dead so long! Kiss me, Helen.

Mrs. Thorne. (anxiously). I hope you won’t pay for it to-morrow, dear. (Kisses her affectionately.)

Mrs. Fayth (cheerily). Oh, I expect to be flat to-morrow. But it’s worth it—to go somewhere with one’s husband ... after six years. I’m going to the Fifteen Cent Museum next—when I get a little farther along—some big, noisy, healthy, shabby place. Fred has promised to take me. He dotes on the gorillas.... Well, I only ran in. The horses are getting cold. I must go. Give my love to the Doctor—Helen! I’m going to church when I get well. I want to hear the Te Deum.... It’s a good while since I did that. They won’t let me. They put it off till the last. Fred said I must begin with the Hospital Fair and work up through the gorillas to re-li-gious dis-si-pa-tion. The Doctor says I’m to get well in a sci-en-ti-fic manner; on the Law of Ev-o-lution. Poor dear Doctor! He doesn’t care about the Te Deum.—Helen, I wish your husband believed. He is so good—so kind. He ought to be a re-li-gious man.

Mrs. Thorne (sadly, with almost imperceptible bitterness). He is a doctor.

Mrs. Fayth. He is so great, you see. He is almighty to so many miserable people.... I can understand that. His mind stops there. He is so strong, so powerful; he works the miracles himself.

Mrs. Thorne. My husband has no time to study these questions, Mary. All his life is given up to science, you know. I thought—when we were first married—I could influence him in these ways. But a doctor’s wife learns better than that.

Mrs. Fayth. What he needs is to be half-dead. Then he would have to believe. He is too much alive, poor Doctor.... It is such a joy to be alive, Helen! I thought I must run in and tell you.

Mrs. Thorne (smiling affectionately). I’ll tell him to be sure and see you to-morrow. You’ll need it.

Mrs. Fayth. Well, Fred can tel-e-phone. I dare say I shall be sick enough. Good-by, dear—Helen? What ails you? You don’t look right to-night.

Mrs. Thorne (arousing). Laddie doesn’t seem well at all. I can’t make Esmerald believe that anything ails him. But that’s the way, you know.... I am not allowed to be anxious. The mother of a doctor’s child can never be that.

Mrs. Fayth (with quick sympathy). Oh, I am so sorry! I know just how you feel—

Mrs. Thorne. You never had a child, Mary.

Mrs. Fayth. But sick people understand everything. Oh, we know!

Mrs. Thorne. Yes. I suppose you have so much time to think.

Mrs. Fayth. We have so much time to feel. (Rises to leave.)

(Mrs. Thorne puts the opera cape over her friend’s shoulders.)

Mrs. Fayth (abruptly). Helen, I was thinking to-day about Cleo. I don’t often.

Mrs. Thorne (pityingly). Poor girl! I do, very often. She must have led a cruel life with her husband. And she was so young when he died! She really hated him—I think as much after he was dead as when he was alive.

Mrs. Fayth. She did not hate yours.

Mrs. Thorne (gravely). She was a patient. I have nothing to say.

Mrs. Fayth. But of course she hardly made a secret of it, that she loved the Doctor—half wrongly, half rightly.

Mrs. Thorne. Like the woman she was—half fiend, half angel—

Mrs. Fayth (interrupting). There are people who still talk about her; they are equally divided whether she died of love or morphine. It is said she had the opium habit. It is three years ago to-day that she killed herself.

Mrs. Thorne. I had forgotten.... Poor Cleo!

Mrs. Fayth. I’ve been thinking about her all day—I don’t know why. She never liked me very well—perhaps because I didn’t love the Doctor; and so he could do so much more for me. You know how those things go.... And you never gave her the satisfaction of one hour’s jealousy?

Mrs. Thorne (peacefully). How could I? I never had the materials.... But, as you say, these things are complicated. We never know where the end of the skein is.

Mrs. Fayth. I will send over to-morrow and see how Laddie is. Good-night—good-night.

Mrs. Thorne (kisses her warmly). I wish you would stay—I wish you need not go. Don’t go! Mary—don’t go!

[Exit Mrs. Fayth (slowly, with a sweet,
mysterious smile).

(Mrs. Thorne relapses into her anxious attitude and manner. Moves to the window, and looks out again, between the curtains. While she stands there with her back to the door, suddenly and noisily striding in.)

Enter Dr. Thorne.

Dr. Thorne (at once). Isn’t dinner ready?

Mrs. Thorne (turning delightedly). Oh! At last!

Dr. Thorne. Well. You might have met me, then.

Mrs. Thorne. Why, I have been watching for you—and listening—till I’m half blind and deaf. I have been to the window—

Dr. Thorne. Don’t complain. I hate a complaining woman.

Mrs. Thorne (has advanced towards him, and impulsively put up her arms! Drops them at this and turns sadly). I did not know I was complaining, Esmerald.

Dr. Thorne. Most people don’t know when they are disagreeable. (He does not offer to kiss her; pulls off his overcoat nervously.) Isn’t dinner ready? I am starved out.

(Maggie is seen in the dining-room hastily serving dinner.)

Mrs. Thorne (ringing). Maggie had orders to put it on as soon as she heard your wheels.... Yes. There! You poor, hungry fellow!

Enter Maggie.

Maggie. Dinner is served, Mrs. Thorne.

Dr. Thorne. I must run up and change my coat, first—no, I won’t. I haven’t time. I am driven to death. Come along, Helen. (Strides out before her; then recalls himself from his discourtesy, and steps back. Dr. Thorne is a tall, well-built, handsome man, of distinguished bearing, but with a slight limp; his face is disfigured by a frown, as he looks at his wife. He repeats) I am driven to death! I haven’t time to call my soul my own.

Mrs. Thorne (archly). I thought you hadn’t any soul, dear. Or I thought you thought you hadn’t.

Dr. Thorne (crossly). Soul? Rubbish! It is more than I can do to manage bodies. Soul? Stuff! What have you got for dinner?

(They seat themselves at the table.)

Mrs. Thorne. You poor boy! You poor, tired, hungry fellow! I hope the dinner will please you? (Timidly.)

Dr. Thorne (testily). Really, I hadn’t time to come at all. I’ve got to go again in ten minutes. But I supposed you would worry if I didn’t show myself. It’s a foolish waste of time. I wish I hadn’t come.

Mrs. Thorne (speaking in a low, controlled, articulate voice). You need not. On my account. You need never come again.

Dr. Thorne (irritably). It is easier to come than to know you sit here making yourself miserable because I don’t.

Mrs. Thorne (gently). Have I ever fretted you about coming, Esmerald? I did not know it.

Dr. Thorne. It would be easier if you did fret. I’d rather you’d say a thing than look it. Any man would.... This soup is burned!

Mrs. Thorne. Too bad! I gave special orders to Jane—that is really too bad. Let me send it away.

Dr. Thorne (excitedly). No, I’ve got to get down something. Bring on the rest—if there is anything fit to eat. I’m due at the Hospital in twenty-two minutes. Gazell is behaving like the devil. If I’m not to handle him, nobody can. The whole staff is afraid of him—everybody but me. We sha’n’t get the new ward built these two years if he carries the day to-night. I’ve got a consultation at Decker’s. The old lady is dying. It’s no use dragging a tired man out there; I can’t do her any good. But they will have it. I’m at the beck and call of every whim. I wish I’d had time to change my boots! My feet are wet. My head aches horribly. I had an enormous office—sixty people; forty here—twenty down-town—besides my calls. I’ve seen eighty sick people to-day. I was a fool to agree to that noon office hour.—I’ve lost ten thousand dollars in this panic. Brake telephoned me to get down to Stock Street to save what I could. I couldn’t get off.... I lost a patient this morning—that little girl at the Harrohart’s. She was a poor little scrofulous thing, but they are terribly cut up about it.—I wish you’d had a good, clear soup. I hate these opaque things.

Mrs. Thorne. But last time we had consommÉ, you said—

Dr. Thorne. I said! I said! Who cares what he says?

Mrs. Thorne (in a low voice). That seems to be quite true.

Dr. Thorne. What did you say? Do speak louder. I hate to hear women mumble their words.—I hope you have some roast beef; better than the last. You mustn’t let Parsnip cheat you. Quail? There’s no nourishment in quail for a man in my state— (Pushes away his plate crossly.) Well, I suppose I’ve got to eat something. I was a fool not to dine at the club.—The gas leaks. Can’t you have it attended to? Pudding? No. I see enough of spoon food in sick rooms. I might have eaten a good, hearty pie.

Mrs. Thorne. But the last pie we had, you said—

Dr. Thorne (again). I said! I said! What does it signify what a man says? How many times must I say that? Hurry up the coffee. I must swallow it, and go. I’ve got more than ten men could do.

Mrs. Thorne (gently, but with perceptible dignity). It seems to be more than one woman can do—

Dr. Thorne. What’s that? Do speak so I can hear you.—If you’re going to speak at all.

Mrs. Thorne. I said it seems to be more than one woman can do to rest you.

Dr. Thorne (carelessly). Do ring for a decent cup of coffee. I can’t drink this.

Mrs. Thorne. Esmerald—

Dr. Thorne (crossly). Oh, what? I can’t stop to talk. There! I’ve burned my tongue now. If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s going to a consultation with a burned tongue.

Mrs. Thorne (tenderly). How tired you are, Esmerald! It even gets into your poor foot.—You limp more to-night. I was only going to say that I am sorry. I can’t let you go without saying that.

Dr. Thorne (rising, and walking irritably through the rooms). I can’t see that that helps it any. I am so tired I don’t want to be touched. (Mrs. Thorne brings his overcoat. He repulses her.) Never mind my coat. I’ll put it on myself. Tell Joe—No. I left the horse standing; I don’t want Joe. I suppose Donna is uneasy by this time. She won’t stand at night—She’s got to. I’ll get that whim out of her.—Now don’t look that way! The horse is safe enough.

Mrs. Thorne. I haven’t bothered you about the horse, have I? But I don’t feel—quite—easy. She is such a nervous creature, and so—

Dr. Thorne (imperiously). Don’t you suppose I know how to drive? You’re always having opinions of your own against mine. There! I must be off.—Where’s the boy, Helen? Where’s Laddie?

Mrs. Thorne (gently). Laddie isn’t just right, somehow, Esmerald. I hated to bother you, for you never think it’s anything. Molly is with him. I’ve been a little troubled about him. He has cried all the afternoon.

Dr. Thorne. He cries because you coddle him! It is all nonsense, Helen. Nothing ails the child. I won’t encourage this sort of thing. I’ll see him when I come home. I can’t possibly wait—I am driven to death—for every little whim. (Rushes towards the door, but pauses, irresolute.) I suppose I shall have to go up—if you’ve got this fixed idea in your head. I’ll take a look at him on the way out.

Mrs. Thorne (more gently; without reproach, but regarding him steadily). Good-by, Esmerald.

Dr. Thorne. Oh, bother!—I can’t stop for fooling, now.

Mrs. Thorne (with sudden change of manner, breaks down, and hides her face in her arms. She weeps quietly). He has always kissed me good-by—before—ever since we have been married. He never, never missed before!

Re-enter Dr. Thorne. (He holds the
child in his arms, and strides in impetuously,
still limping; lays Laddie,
wrapped in a silk robe, upon the sofa.
Tries to make the child sit up; but
the little fellow languidly falls back
upon the pillows.)

(Mrs. Thorne moves quickly over, and supports the child.)

Dr. Thorne. Helen, I must have an end to this nonsense! Nothing ails Laddie. He is only a trifle feverish, with a little toothache—possibly there’s a slight cold. The child should be out of the nursery. He will sleep better for the change. Let him stay awhile—and don’t make a fool of yourself over him. It really is very unpleasant to me that you make such a fuss every time he is ailing. If you had married a green grocer, it might have been pardonable. Pray remember that you have married a physician who understands his business, and do leave me to manage it.... There! (Consults his watch.) I’m eight minutes behindhand already, all for this senseless anxiety of yours. It’s a pity you can’t trust me, like other men’s wives. I wish I had married a woman with a little wifely spirit ... or else not married at all.

[Exit Dr. Thorne. (He does not bid
his wife good-by. At the threshold of
the door he seems to hesitate, makes
as if he would turn back, but goes out.)

Mrs. Thorne. Oh-h-h me! (Utters one long, low cry; she does not speak any words. She releases her hold of Laddie, who drops back sleepily upon the sofa pillow. She seems to forget the child. She stands still, in the middle of the library, with her face towards the window; her hands are crossed before her, and clenched tightly together. A solemn expression grows upon her face. Her tears dry upon her cheeks. Her eyes widen and darken. Her mouth quivers pitifully. Still she does not speak. She moves slowly to the window, and draws the curtains back. She stands there looking out; she shades her eyes with her hand. The hand trembles.)

The Child (cries). Mamma! Mamma!

Mrs. Thorne (does not respond to the child. She moans). Esmerald!—Es—mer—ald!

End of Scene I.

SCENE II.

Arises Dr. Thorne. (He is dressed for driving, as when he left home; his overcoat disarranged, muddy, and torn; his hat gone; his face has a singular pallor, and his whole appearance is agitated. As he rises, he throws a carriage robe back over the spot where he had been lying. He speaks.)

Dr. Thorne. That dastardly brute has done it, now! I’ll sell Donna for this.—It will play the mischief with that old injury. I shall exchange an interesting limp for crutches, now.—Hil-loa! (Walks to and fro with perfect ease.) The shock has acted like a battery on the nerve centres. Instead of a broken neck I have a cured leg. I’m a lucky fellow—as usual. (Laughs lightly; turns to examine the condition of the ruined buggy; suddenly looks confused, and puts his hand to his head.) Curious cerebral symptoms I have! Queer, there isn’t a crowd round. They must have missed the trail when Donna bolted. She’ll be at the stable by this time.—She won’t go home. Helen won’t know.... I shouldn’t like to be the man that had to tell Helen!... I must get to her—I must get home as soon as I’ve been to the Hospital. I’m afraid I was a little short with Helen. I wish— (Presses both hands to his temples as if to command himself; looks more and more bewildered.) I must have been pretty well stunned—seems to me there was a collision. I ran down somebody. It was a landau—we crashed—I saw it overturn—there were people in it I knew—patients.... Who?... Who? (Stamps the pavement peremptorily, and impatiently strikes his own head.) Who was it?—Horrible! The brain cells do not obey me—me! (Walks about frenziedly.) ... Ach—ch! It is worse to remember than to forget. I have it now—the sweetest woman of them all—Helen’s friend—the gentlest, the most obedient, most trustful, the bravest patient I ever had—Mrs. Fayth. I saw her face as the carriage went over.... She stretched out her hands, and said: “Doctor!” It was Mary Fayth. (His face falls into his hands. For a moment he sinks down on the wreck of the buggy; but springs up.) Now that accounts for it.—The crowd are all there. The accident was so bad nobody has thought of me. She is the victim. I have escaped. Dead or alive, she is done for. She never could recover from a shock like that. I must go and find her. I must find Mrs. Fayth. (Starts and hurriedly walks down the street, peering everywhere.)

[Exit Dr. Thorne.

(In his absence no person passes the street.)

Re-enter Dr. Thorne.

Strange! How strange! I cannot find her. I cannot find anything—nor anybody that a man would naturally meet under such circumstances. Not a trace of the accident—yet I’m as sure of it as I am that I’m alive. (Pronounces these words slowly, and paces the sidewalk, irresolute.) It all came from my being overdue at the Hospital. I suppose I did drive Donna pretty fast. I wonder if I struck her? I am always in such an infernal hurry—I never have had time to live. I am driven to death. (He says the last five words, not impatiently, but with a certain solemn deliberation.) I must go at once to Mrs. Fayth’s house. They must have carried Mary there—I wish I could spare time to see Helen!—I’ll go right home as soon as I’ve been to Fayth’s. Odd! How these brain symptoms last. I must have had quite a blow. I don’t—I can’t—it is mortifying to feel so confused.

[Exit Dr. Thorne.

(In his absence the street remains deserted.)

Re-enter Dr. Thorne.

Enter behind him a tall Woman. (She is
wrapped in a long ash-colored veil, or
mantle, beneath which shows a gleaming
gown of flame-color. She follows
Dr. Thorne silently. She keeps at a
distance from him. Her step is a gliding,
stealthy one. The Woman does
not speak.)

Dr. Thorne. There must be serious cerebral congestion. I cannot find the street. I cannot find Fayth’s house. What part of this bewitched town am I in? I have lost my way—I, Esmerald Thorne, with a clientele of twenty years from end to end of the city—I cannot find my way.

Enter a Suburban, a Loafer, and a
Priest. (The Woman draws her veil,
and looks solemnly at Dr. Thorne
as she passes. Her face is pale and
wretched, but possesses singular
beauty.)

[Exit the Woman.

(Dr. Thorne does not notice the Woman.)

(The Loafer leans against a post. He stares stupidly at the wreck.)

(The Priest walks slowly, reciting an Ave.)

(The Suburban hurries on, making a wide circle to avoid the ruins of the carriage.)

Dr. Thorne (addressing the Suburban). Can you tell me?—Here! Hold on a minute! Man, can’t you answer a civil question? Will you tell me—

The Suburban (pays no attention to Dr. Thorne, but hurries on. Consults his watch; speaks.) I shall lose my train!

[Exit Suburban, running.

Dr. Thorne (with puzzled impatience, addressing the Loafer). Here!—You! Why, it’s Jerry! Just tell me, will you, Jerry, where the accident was, and how much was the lady hurt?

(The Loafer stares stupidly at Dr. Thorne, but makes no answer.)

[Exit Loafer.

Dr. Thorne (with trouble on his face, more gently addresses the Priest, whom he slightly touches on the arm). Sir!—Oh, Father Sullivan! Look here, Father! I’m ashamed to confess, I have lost my way. Would you direct me to the house of the well-known merchant, Frederick Fayth? I am due there on an urgent professional errand, and—I cannot explain the phenomenon—but I have lost my way!

(The Priest repeats an Ave under his breath. He looks Dr. Thorne full in the face, but does not reply.)

Dr. Thorne. And will you be so kind as to tell me whether you have heard of a carriage accident down-town—and how much was the lady hurt? Did you—

Priest(looks blindly over Dr. Thorne’s head; mutters). Nay—Nay. I see nothing. (He crosses himself). Ave Sanctissima! Ora pro nobis! (He lifts his arms and, with a troubled and confused expression, makes the sign of the cross in the air over Dr. Thorne. Priest passes on.)

Dr. Thorne (gently). Thank you, Father.

[Exit Priest.

Dr. Thorne (stands sunken in thought for a few moments; suddenly starts and knots his hands together, then separates them with the motion of one blind or of one feeling his way in the dark). I must see Helen! I must go to Helen!—Helen! Helen!

(Sudden darkness settles. When it passes, the wreck of the buggy is removed.)

Enter Dr. Thorne. (Walks rapidly and
perplexedly, still with the manner of a
man who has lost his way.)

[Exit.

Re-enter.

[Exit.

Re-enter (speaks).

I must get home. I will get home. I will see Helen! (Stops sharply, as if smitten by an unseen force; cannot take another step; contends, as if with an invisible power; droops, as if vanquished; turns, and retraces his way; his head hangs to his breast. He speaks.) What thwarts me from my home? Who constrains me from my wife? (Lifts his face angrily to the sky.) Is this hypnotism? (Laughs sarcastically.) Am I an infant—or a maniac? It must be anÆsthesia passing off. Perhaps I was etherized by some blank fool after that shock.—The accident! That is it, of course, of course! It is the cerebral concussion—a simple case.... I shouldn’t like this to get out. I believe I’ll go into my office—if I can find my office—and wait till this passes off. It is a perfectly simple case. (Walks feverishly up and down the street, searching for his own office; mutters.) Ever since I yielded to that demand for a noon office hour downtown for business men—it has crowded me without mercy. If they hadn’t been my old patients, I wouldn’t have succumbed to it. It’s just another strand in the whiplash that has driven me to death. Well (draws a long breath)—I seem to be out of sorts to-night. I shall get over all this nonsense when I see Helen. Helen will set me right. Helen will make a live man of me again.

End of Scene II.

SCENE III.

Dr. Thorne (throws himself heavily into his revolving chair). What the devil am I here for? (Violently. The light grows dim as he says this.) Why in—why in the name of all the laws of Nature cannot I get home? (After a pause, brokenly.) Well—well! It’s something to be here; to get out of the street—in out of the night—it’s a good deal. I’d begun to understand how outcasts feel—felons, apparitions, fugitives. In the name of the laws of mystery, thank Heaven for so much! (The light brightens. It reveals his face, which is haggard and pinched. He pushes his case books about, aimlessly. Suddenly his hand hits the receiver of the telephone. He springs and cries out:) The telephone! The telephone! I must have gone stark mad not to think of it.—See! I’m not a drinking man, am I? (Puts his hand to his head.) No. I do not drink. Helen would not like to have me.—No. And I’ve been all these hours without telephoning to Helen. She’ll think I did it on purpose—poor Helen—because of the words I said. If a man could slay the words he says.... They harry me—like ghosts. (Rings the telephone violently.) Central? 48.4—48.4, I say. Why don’t you give me 48.4? I tell you I’m in a hurry. 48.4! And be quick with it! (Rings again.) Why in—why don’t you attend to your business there? It is Dr. Thorne—Dr. Esmerald Thorne. My errand is most urgent. Give me my home, and make short work of it. 48.4! Do you hear? (Rings again.)

(A man’s voice from the Exchange comes faintly over the wire, reverberating through the transmitter, so as to be audible at a distance from the instrument.) Why don’t you speak? We cannot make out a word you say.

Dr. Thorne (rings again, wildly). I tell you I want my home—48.4! I must speak to my wife. Give me 48.4—Helen? Helen!

Voice from the telephone. Stop ringing your bell if you can’t use your tongue. Put your mouth close to the transmitter. Are you drunk? Or are you dead?

Dr. Thorne (still ringing). I will report you for this. It shall cost you your place. 48.4, I say. Give me my house. I will not submit to this. Give me 48.4!

(The telephone ceases to reply.)

Dr. Thorne (rises, hangs up the receiver, and paces the office tempestuously; speaks). The very forces of Nature are in league against me.... My own nervous system—the night—the atmosphere—electricity—they are all gone foes to me. They are serried like an army between myself and her. Helen will be—Helen will suffer—oh, poor girl!

(The telephone call bell rings suddenly.)

Dr. Thorne (leaping to the receiver). Who calls? I am here. Who wants Dr. Thorne? (He snatches the receiver greedily to his ear; listens a moment; cries wildly:) Oh, Helen! Is that you, dear? Speak louder, darling.... Yes, I’m here—at my office down-town. I’ll be home soon. Don’t be frightened—but I met with a trifling accident. Helen? Helen! What’s the trouble? Don’t you hear me, Helen?

Woman’s voice from the telephone. Is my husband there? Esmerald! Are you there?

Dr. Thorne. Why, Helen! Don’t you hear me? What does ail this cursed telephone? Central! Give me a decent wire. My wife can’t hear a word I say.... Helen? I’m not at all hurt—only shaken up a little. I’ll get back just as soon as—Helen? Helen!

Woman’s voice from the transmitter. Central? I cannot find my husband at his office. Please give me the Hospital.—I must communicate with my husband.

(Voice from the transmitter dies away.)

Dr. Thorne (rings madly). Central, you’ve cut me off! You’ve cut me off from my home. Give me 48.4 again. Helen?—Helen! Can’t you hear me? Don’t you understand me, Helen? Oh, I could hear you—your own dear voice, my girl! I wanted to tell you—I can’t wait till I see you to say—Helen? She does not hear me.—Helen!

(The transmitter is silent.)

(Dr. Thorne lays the receiver down. He hides his face in his hands.)

End of Scene III.

SCENE IV.

DR. ESMERALD THORNE.
Office Hour 12-1 o’clock.