“Who was she with before she came to you?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

 

There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head

in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.

 

“Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?”

 

“Not at all,” I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my

manner. “I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.”

 

Her anger left her and she became confused again.

 

“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I?

 

It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”

 

One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when

people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs.

 

Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my

questions—minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and

there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman