I shall overcome her yet. Give me a paper, a telegram form, ink—I"—excitedly—"I have a friend who will help me. One friend," she turned and looked piteously at the old man. "I have only one friend in all the world," said she, "and he—distrusts me."
"You have another," said the good old doctor stoutly, "in me. And I do not distrust you. Come! come now, my dear. Take courage. Here are pens and paper. Let us telegraph to this distrustful, if useful, friend of yours."
Fenella wrote rapidly, and handed the telegram to the doctor. He read it aloud:
"Come to me at once. Great trouble! Make no delay, I implore you?"
Having read it, he went back to the address—"Clitheroe Jacynth!"
"Jacynth!—a distinguished man. One almost unconquerable, they say now. I congratulate you if you have him on your side."
"Ah! but you forget!"
"Tut—when he comes I shall speak to him. I shall dissolve all doubts," said the little man kindly. "And now to dispatch this at once. I shall take it myself, if you will promise to lie down and try to rest for awhile."
"I promise," said she meekly, but it was a promise vain indeed. The door once closed behind him, she began her dreadful walk up and down, up and down the room. She felt half mad.
