monds were occupying the best rooms in the establishment. I sent up my card, and a moment later found myself in a nondescript sort of apartment—between a dining-room. and a drawing-room—and shaking hands with Will.
He was always a haggard-looking fellow, not the least handsome, with rugged features, deep-set eyes, a wide mouth, and a lean, brown face. There was something manly about him, however; his figure was splendid; he was tall without a scrap of superfluous flesh, and very muscular. He came up to me at once and wrung my hand, hard.
"This is good of you," he said. "I might have known you would not fail me. Now, sit down and have some breakfast."
He strode across the room as he spoke, and gave a violent jerk to the bell. It sounded with a clanging noise in the distance, and in a moment a waiter, not too clean in his appearance, answered it.
"What will you have, Halifax—tea or coffee?" inquired Raymond.
"Strong coffee," I answered.
"Coffee at once, and anything cold you have in the house," said Raymond to the man.
He withdrew, and we found ourselves alone.
I looked round for Mrs. Raymond.
"How about my patient?" I said. "How is she? I trust your wife is better, my dear fellow."
"No, she is very unwell," replied Raymond. "I do not suppose it is really anything serious, but she is in a very queer, nervous state—it has all been caused by that railway accident."
"What in the world do you mean?" I exclaimed.
"Didn't you see the account in the papers? Surely you must have done so. Two days after our wedding we were jogging along in one of these atrocious little local trains, when an express ran into us. Fortunately no one was killed, but Maggie got a shake, and she was knocked about a good bit. She made wonderfully little of it at the time. In fact, I In fact, I never saw anyone so plucky, but that night she fainted off, and was unconscious for over an hour. Since then she has been very poorly and shaken: and—and—I don't want to conceal the truth from you, Halifax—she is completely changed; she is an absolutely different woman. She is morose, and even suspicious; one moment full of tenderness and devotion to me, in short, quite the old Maggie whom I loved and married; then, again, she treats me with suspicion. Often for hours she will not allow me to come near her room. Of course, the whole thing is caused by that beastly shock, but still I thought you had better see her."
"Yes, this nervous condition is undoubtedly caused by the shock," I answered, as cheerfully as I could. "Your wife will probably have to rest for some little time, and then she will be quite herself again. Shall I see her now, or would you like to prepare her for my visit?"
"No, I won't prepare her. She hates the most remote idea of seeing a doctor; and although, of course, you are an old friend, I doubt if I prepared her for your visit if she would admit you to her presence. No, you have your breakfast first, and then we'll go together to her room."
The waiter appeared at this moment with the coffee, a cold game pie, and other preparations for breakfast. He placed them on the table, looked round to see if everything was all right, and then withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
The moment my hasty meal was over Will put his hand through my arm and, walking towards the door, we crossed a wide landing and entered his wife's room. It was a large room, nearly as big as the drawing-room. There was a great, old-fashioned four-post bedstead occupying a considerable part of one wall. It was hung with dark red velvet, and looked unpleasant and funereal, as for some intangible reason these sort of bedsteads always do.
Mrs. Raymond was sitting up in bed. Her abundant tresses of soft, light hair were falling all over her shoulders—the curled naturally—and she was occupying herself winding one of the tendrils round and round her fingers, and stroking it with the other hand, when we entered the room. She looked up at her husband, and then I saw how greatly changed she was. All the pretty colour which had added to her beauty on her wedding-day had given place to a grey sort of pallor—her childish mouth was drawn, her lips looked thin and parched. Her eyes were intensely bright, lovely still in shape and colour, but unnatural and strained in expression.
Will smiled at her and spoke in a confident, hearty voice.
"Well, my darling," he said, "I have brought an old friend to see you—you will give Halifax a welcome, won't you, Maggie?"
She did not smile when her husband spoke; on the contrary, after giving him a
