inside. Surely you are very unwise to come out dressed in this way on such a night," and I led the way to my smoking-room with its warm, cosy fire.
I glanced at her as I handed her a chair, and was astonished to see how wonderfully handsome she was, because although I had seen her before on a few occasions, I had not noticed that fact.
"Mrs. Manne-Martyn, I believe?" I ventured to say, and as she sat down I saw that she had on a black, very décolleté evening dress and thin satin drawing-room slippers, which were soaked through and most certainly ruined.
"What can I do for you? I fear there must be something serious the matter to bring you out to me like this," I said as I took her opera-cloak and hung it over the back of a chair. I wondered in my own mind most consumedly why this pretty woman had come to see me in this strange and unorthodox kind of way.
"I—I hardly know how to tell you, Dr. d'Escombe," she replied, her shortness of breath caused, I imagined, partly by the storm blowing outside which she had braved, and partly by agitation. "My husband, he is ill—perhaps dying—I don't know. Oh! you will
