is important that your father should get relief as soon as possible. I wish you would let me go to the chemist myself."
"No, the servant is coming," she answered.
Heavy footsteps were heard descending the stairs, and I saw through the partly open door the outline of a man's figure. Leonora gave him the paper, with directions to hurry, and he went downstairs.
"Now, that is better," she said, returning to the room. "While we wait you will eat something, will you not?"
"No, thank you," I replied. The food on the table was appetizing. There were piles of fresh sandwiches, a lobster salad, and other dainties; but something in the air of the place, something in the desolation of the dark house, for this was the only well-lighted room, something in the forlorn attitude of the young girl who stood before me, suspense in her eyes, anxiety round her lips, took away the faintest desire to eat.
If what the man upstairs said was true, his tortures must be fiendish. Leonora asked me again to eat—again I refused.
"Will you open one of those bottles of champagne?" she said, suddenly. "I am faint, I must have a glass."
I did her bidding, of course. She drank off about half a glass of the sparkling wine, and then turned to me with a little additional colour.
"You are a good man," she said, suddenly. "I am sorry that we have so troubled you."
"That is nothing," I replied, "if I can be of benefit to your father. I should like to come here to-morrow and go carefully into his case."
"And then you will tell me the truth, which you are concealing now?" she answered.
"If he gives me permission," I replied.
"Oh, I knew there was something which he would not tell," she retorted; "he tries to deceive me. Won't you sit down? You must be tired standing."
I seated myself on the first chair, and looked round the room.
"This is a queer, old-fashioned sort of place," I said. "Have you lived here long?"
"Since my birth," she answered. "I am seventeen. I have lived here for seventeen years. Dr. Halifax?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Do you mind my leaving you alone? I feel so restless, impatient, and nervous; I will go to my father until the messenger returns."
"Certainly," I replied; "and if he gets worse call to me, and I will come to you immediately; he ought not to be left long alone. I am anxious to give him relief as speedily as possible. This injection of trinitrin will immediately do so. I hope your messenger will soon return from the chemist's."
"He will be back presently. The chemist we employ happens to live at a little distance. I will go upstairs now."
"Very well," I replied, "make use of me when you want me."
She smiled, gave me a long glance with an expression on her face which I could not fathom, and softly closed the door behind her. It was a padded door, and made no sound as it closed.
I sat down in an easy chair; a very comfortable one, with a deep seat. I shut my eyes, for I was really beginning to feel tired, and the hour was now past midnight. I sincerely hoped the servant would soon return with the medicine. I was interested in my strange patient, and anxious to put him out of his worst tortures as soon as possible. I saw, as in a picture, the relief which would sweep over Leonora Whitby's face when she saw her father sink into a natural slumber.
She was evidently much attached to him, and yet he had treated her badly. His conduct in leaving her alone at the theatre, whatever his sufferings might have been, was scarcely what one would expect from a father to so young and lovely a girl. He had deliberately exposed his own child to the chances of insult. Why had he done this? Why, also, had he only feigned unconsciousness? How very unconventional, to say the least, was his mode of treating his child. He gave her to understand that he suffered from epileptic fits, whereas in reality his malady was angina pectoris.
Here I started and uttered a sudden loud exclamation.
"My God!" I said to myself. "The man cannot suffer from angina pectoris, his symptoms do not point to it. What is the matter with him? Did he feign the agony as well as the unconsciousness? He must have a monomania."
I could scarcely believe that this was possible. I felt I felt almost certain that his tortures were not assumed. That writhing at least was natural, and that death-like pallor could scarcely be put on at will. The case began to interest me in the strangest way. I heartily wished the servant to return in order to see some more of my most peculiar patient.
