“That is precisely what I wish to talk to you about.”

The doctor breathed a little inward sigh of relief; and he once again jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Ah, of course—Mrs. Tranter is worried? Tell her from me that all is being done that can be done. A party is out searching. I have offered five pounds to the man who brings her back…” his voice went bitter “… or finds the poor creature’s body.”

“She is alive. I’ve just received a note from her.”

Charles looked down before the doctor’s amazed look. And then, at first addressing his brandy glass, he began to tell the truth of his encounters with Sarah—that is, almost all the truth, for he left undescribed his own more secret feelings, He managed, or tried, to pass some of the blame off on Dr. Grogan and their previous conversation; giving himself a sort of scientific status that the shrewd little man opposite did not fail to note. Old doctors and old priests share one thing in common: they get a long nose for deceit, whether it is overt or, as in Charles’s case, committed out of embarrassment. As he went on with his confession, the end of Dr. Grogan’s nose began metaphorically to twitch; and this invisible twitching signified very much the same as Sam’s pursing of his lips. The doctor let no sign of his suspicions appear. Now and then he asked questions, but in general he let Charles talk his increasingly lame way to the end of his story. Then he stood up.

“Well, first things first. We must get those poor devils back.” The thunder was now much closer and though the curtains had been drawn, the white shiver of lightning trembled often in their weave behind Charles’s back.

“I came as soon as I could.”

“Yes, you are not to blame for that. Now let me see…” The doctor was already seated at a small desk in the rear of the room. For a few moments there was no sound in it but the rapid scratch of his pen. Then he read what he had written to Charles.

“’Dear Forsyth, News has this minute reached me that Miss Woodruff is safe. She does not wish her whereabouts disclosed, but you may set your mind at rest. I hope to have further news of her tomorrow. Please offer the enclosed to the party of searchers when they return. ‘Will that do?”

“Excellently. Except that the enclosure must be mine.” Charles produced a small embroidered purse, Ernestina’s work, and set three sovereigns on the green cloth desk beside Grogan, who pushed two away. He looked up with a smile.

“Mr. Forsyth is trying to abolish the demon alcohol. I think one piece of gold is enough.” He placed the note and the coin in an envelope, sealed it, and then went to arrange for the letter’s speedy delivery.

He came back, talking. “Now the girl—what’s to be done about her? You have no notion where she is at the moment?”

“None at all. Though I am sure she will be where she indicated tomorrow morning.”

“But of course you cannot be there. In your situation you cannot risk any further compromise.”

Charles looked at him, then down at the carpet.

“I am in your hands.”

The doctor stared thoughtfully at Charles. He had just set a little test to probe his guest’s mind. And it had revealed what he had expected. He turned and went to the bookshelves by his desk and then came back with the same volume he had shown Charles before: Darwin’s great work. He sat before him across the fire; then with a small smile and a look at Charles over his glasses, he laid his hand, as if swearing on a Bible on The Origin of Species.

“Nothing that has been said in this room or that remains to be said shall go beyond its walls.” Then he put the book aside.

“My dear Doctor, that was not necessary.”

“Confidence in the practitioner is half of medicine.”

Charles smiled wanly. “And the other half?”

“Confidence in the patient.” But he stood before Charles could speak. “Well now—you came for my advice, did you not?” He eyed Charles almost as if he was going to box with him; no longer the bantering, but the fighting Irishman. Then he began to pace his “cabin,” his hands tucked under his frock coat.

“I am a young woman of superior intelligence and some education. I think the world has done badly by me. I am not in full command of my emotions. I do foolish things, such as throwing myself at the head of the first handsome rascal who is put in my path. What is worse, I have fallen in love with being a victim of fate. I put out a very professional line in the way of looking melancholy. I have tragic eyes. I weep without explanation. Et cetera. Et cetera. And now…” the little doctor waved his hand at the door, as if invoking magic “…enter a young god. Intelligent. Good-looking. A perfect specimen of that class my education has taught me to admire. I see he is interested in me. The sadder I seem, the more interested he appears to be. I kneel before him, he raises me to my feet. He treats me like a lady. Nay, more than that. In a spirit of Christian brotherhood he offers to help me escape from my unhappy lot.”

Charles made to interrupt, but the doctor silenced him.

“Now I am very poor. I can use none of the wiles the more fortunate of my sex employ to lure mankind into their power.” He raised his forefinger. “I have but one weapon. The pity I inspire in this kindhearted man. Now pity is a thing that takes a devil of a lot of feeding. I have fed this Good Samaritan my past and he has devoured it. So what can I do? I must make him pity my present. One day, when I am walking where I have been forbidden to walk, I seize my chance. I show myself to someone I know will report my crime to the one person who will not condone it. I get myself dismissed from my position. I disappear, under the strong presumption that it is in order to throw myself off the nearest clifftop. And then, in extremis and de profundis—or rather de altis—I cry to my savior for help.” He left a long pause then, and Charles’s eyes slowly met his. The doctor smiled, “I present what is partly hypothesis, of course.”

“But your specific accusation—that she invited her own…”

The doctor sat and poked the fire into life. “I was called early this morning to Marlborough House. I did not know why—merely that Mrs. P. was severely indisposed. Mrs. Fairley—the housekeeper, you know—told me the gist of what had happened.” He paused and fixed Charles’s unhappy eyes. “Mrs. Fairley was yesterday at the dairy out there on Ware Cleeves. The girl walked flagrantly out of the woods under her nose. Now that woman is a very fair match to her mistress, and I’m sure she did her subsequent duty with all the mean appetite of her kind. But I am convinced, my dear Smithson, that she was deliberately invited to do it.”

“You mean…” The doctor nodded. Charles gave him a terrible look, then revolted. “I cannot believe it. It is not possible she should—”

He did not finish the sentence. The doctor murmured, “It is possible. Alas.”

“But only a person of…” he was going to say “warped mind,” but he stood abruptly and went to the window, parted the curtains, stared a blind moment out into the teeming night. A livid flash of sheet lightning lit the Cobb, the beach, the torpid sea. He turned.

“In other words, I have been led by the nose.”

“Yes, I think you have. But it required a generous nose. And you must remember that a deranged mind is not a criminal mind. In this case you must think of despair as a disease, no more or less. That girl, Smithson, has a cholera, a typhus of the intellectual faculties. You must think of her like that. Not as some malicious schemer.”

Charles came back into the room. “And what do you suppose her final intention to be?”

“I very much doubt if she knows. She lives from day to day. Indeed she must. No one of foresight could have behaved as she has.”

“But she cannot seriously have supposed that someone in my position…”