"I--I'm just nervous, Maggie," I said, and sat down. I was
trembling violently.

I was sane. I knew it then as I know it now. But I was not
rational. Perhaps to most of us come now and then times when they
realize that some act, or some thought, is not balanced, as though,
for a moment or an hour, the control was gone from the brain. Or
--and I think this was the feeling I had--that some other control
was in charge. Not the Agnes Blakiston I knew, but another Agnes
Blakiston, perhaps, was exerting a temporary dominance, a hectic,
craven, and hateful control.

That is the only outburst I recall. Possibly Maggie may have
others stored away. She has a tenacious memory. Certainly it was
my nearest approach to violence. But it had the effect of making
me set a watch on myself.

Possibly it was coincidence. Probably, however, Maggie had
communicated with Willie. But two days later young Martin Sprague,
Freda Sprague's son, stopped his car in the drive and came in. He
is a nerve specialist, and very good, although I can remember when
he came down in his night drawers to one of his mother's
dinner-parties.

"Thought I would just run in and see you," he said. "Mother told me
you were here. By George, Miss Agnes, you look younger than ever."

"Who told you to come, Martie?" I asked.

"Told me? I don't have to be told to visit an old friend."