He asked himself that question. He was not a man to take cleverness on
trust. Mrs. Chepstow had not said anything specially brilliant. In her
materialism she was surely short-sighted, if not blind. She had made a
mess of her life. And yet he knew that she was a clever woman.

She had been very frank with him.

Why had she been so frank?

More than once he asked himself that. His mind was full of questions
to-day, questions to which he could not immediately supply answers. He
felt as if in all she had said Mrs. Chepstow had been prompted by some
very definite purpose. She had made upon him the impression of a woman
full of purpose, and often full of subtlety. He could not rid himself of
the conviction that she had had some concealed reason for wishing to
make his acquaintance, some reason unconnected with her health. He
believed she had wished honestly for his help as a doctor. But surely
that was not her only object in coming to Cleveland Square.

The clock on his chimney-piece struck. His time for repose was at an
end. He shut his mouth with a snap, contracted his muscles sharply, and
sprang up from his chair. Ten minutes later he was in a cold bath, and
half an hour later he was dressed for dinner, and going downstairs with
the light, quick step of a man in excellent physical condition and
capital spirits. The passing depression he had caught from his last
patient had vanished away, and he was in the mood to enjoy his
well-earned recreation.

He was dining in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, with Lady Somerson, a