Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 12, No. 60, November 1948

Broome Park, Mass.

April 5th

Dear Louisa,

You will no doubt be surprised to hear from me after all these years, particularly since we parted with some coldness. However, I trust that by now you have forgotten our small misunderstanding. Actually, it was not I who was responsible for the foreclosure on your home, but Father who had somehow got the idea that you had done me an injustice.

I have decided to resume our friendship, Louisa. Obviously it will have to be limited to correspondence as my maid, Martha, informs me that you, too, are confined to your room by illness. Dr. Low has assured me that an outside interest will divert my mind from poor Grosvenor, and although I have learned over a period of years never to take Stephen Low’s advice, I confess I am curious to learn how you were able to purchase your house back. My Martha has been informed by your maid that you never married. Frankly, Louisa, I am surprised. You were always so interested in men.

Recalling your past high-handedness, Louisa, I suppose there is the possibility that you will not wish to enter into correspondence with me. However, I hope the passage of years has made you more sensible. Whatever your shortcomings, you are a Porter and a member of my own generation. Let’s let bygones be bygones. You may consider this an apology if you wish.

Martha will carry this note to you and will call for any communication you may care to make in return.

Your friend and schoolmate,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

Broome Park

April 7th

Dear Louisa,

I must confess I recall nothing amusing in my letter to you. Nevertheless, I was pleased to receive your reply and suppose I must accept your rather odd sense of humor as part of you that the years have had no power to change.

You describe your heart condition as “something between a murmur and a shout.” It seems to me that you are treating the situation with undue lightness, considering that your mother and your paternal grandfather both succumbed to heart disease.

My own trouble is nervous and I attribute it completely to Harley’s selfish and callous action. My health started to fail not long after he took his life, and in the past twenty years has continued to decline. However, I am glad to say that I still anticipate many years of life... glad, not so much on my own account as for the sake of Grosvenor, who unhappily inherits all of his father’s weakness and none of his charm.

Dr. Low insists that I am a victim of myasthenia, a newfangled muscular disorder which he claims is fatal if not treated. When he first presented this absurd diagnosis five years ago, I went to the trouble of reading a number of medical books on the subject. I found that Stephen Low was completely wrong. It seems that myasthenia attacks the muscles, particularly about the throat and eyes, and induces extreme fatigue. It is true that I am subject to attacks of weariness, but that is entirely due to nervous strain. As for my eyes, they have always been bad. So were Father’s and Grandfather’s.

Nevertheless, Dr. Low, unwilling to admit he is mistaken, persists in submitting me to a daily injection of something he calls prostigmin. I am perfectly aware that this is all an elaborate mummery; I have seen the contents of the hypodermic and know them to be nothing but distilled water, or at most a harmless tonic. I have tried more than once to find another physician, but each has proved more incompetent than the last, and in spite of Dr. Low’s stubbornness, I can at least be assured of his personal interest in me.

Dear me, Louisa, it must be over twenty years since you last saw Stephen Low. He hasn’t changed a great deal. He’s completely gray, of course, but as slovenly and careless as ever and still characterized by that rather pointless brand of humor you used to find so amusing. He’s worn the same baggy pepper-and-salt tweeds for the past ten years, not from motives of thrift which would be understandable, but out of sheer indifference. You will be interested to learn that he still offers marriage to me. I must confess that I find considerable comfort in the fact that someone values me, even if it’s only Stephen Low.

Weariness compels me to lay down my pen, Louisa. Perhaps I shall feel strong enough to resume it after luncheon.

Really, Grosvenor has grown more impossible every day. I had hoped that in spite of his difficult childhood he might become a credit to me, but at thirty-four he still exhibits his early traits of weakness and lack of stamina. I try to be patient with him because of his infirmity. I cannot imagine why he should have contracted poliomylitis as an infant; certainly none of the men in my family have been anything but excellent physical specimens.

Grosvenor’s single charm — his exact physical resemblance to his father — is of course marred by his crippled leg. His posture is still bad in spite of the fact that I insisted upon his wearing a brace throughout most of his childhood to correct it.

His most maddening trait is a continual conviction that he is ill — which of course he is not. He is always discovering new symptoms in himself and seeking cures for them. His recent addiction is to a type of capsule that he carries in a small, green bottle in his pocket. Dr. Low assures me that the capsules are harmless.

Grosvenor’s weaknesses might be forgivable if he were an affectionate or dutiful son. He is neither. For example, he was nearly a quarter of an hour late to our reading hour today. His excuse when he finally limped in was that he had fallen asleep. I don’t believe he had fallen asleep at all. I believe he was out of the house somewhere. This is the second time he’s been late this week. Certainly he should have no doubt as to what time I expect him after twelve years of holding our little reading hour daily.

Then when he began his reading — we are re-doing Walter Pater — he seemed a million miles away. I do hope he hasn’t sold another of his stories to that ridiculous little quarterly. About twice a year they accept one of his sketches and he is utterly unmanageable for months afterwards. He read his first-published story aloud to me. I should be the first to be proud of anything creditable that Grosvenor did, but this story was without plot and the characters were completely untrue to life... a selfish woman who drove her husband to suicide and their crippled, ineffectual son. Honesty compelled me to tell Grosvenor he had no talent whatsoever. He became quite sulky and never again mentioned his work to me. If it weren’t that Martha keeps me informed, I should be completely unaware of what he is doing.

The money Grosvenor receives for these stories is not, apparently, sufficient to maintain him. He still lives on the income which I have assigned him — subject to my supervision, of course. I am convinced that if he could afford it, he would leave my house without a qualm. You no doubt realize how difficult it is for me to admit that my own son is lacking in affection for me, but I’m afraid that Grosvenor resembles his father morally as well as in person.

Well, Louisa, a woman as ill as you should not be obliged to listen to an account of an undutiful son. How fortunate you are that your last days are peaceful!

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

Broome Park

April 8th

Dear Louisa,

I have discovered why Grosvenor has been acting so strangely lately. It seems unbelievable, but he has become involved with a woman.

I am too disturbed to write more than a brief note now. I shall give you a full account of any action I decide upon. Really, Louisa, it’s amazing how much closer I feel to you than I did years ago, even before our little difficulty.

I enjoyed your letter, particularly the account of Julia Dollard’s funeral. But what did you mean by saying, “Thanks for your commiseration on my heart-gallop, but would you please omit flowers until absolutely necessary?”

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

Broome Park

April 9th

Dear Louisa,

Well, let me start from the beginning. As I told you yesterday, I discovered that Grosvenor has been carrying on with some woman. This, after consideration, was less surprising than it seemed to me at first. Certainly the Grosvenor name and money could not fail to attract a woman. As for Grosvenor, this involvement merely makes the resemblance between him and his father complete.

I have never told you this, Louisa — after all, we have only recently been on intimate terms — but shortly before my husband’s death I had evidence that there was another woman. I know this must seem incredible; nevertheless it is true. I began to suspect something soon after I induced Harley to abandon his absurd idea of being a concert pianist and to go into Father’s office. He began to spend evenings away from home, and although his excuse was that he was playing chess with Dr. Low, I wasn’t deceived. One day I was able to confront him with evidence — I found in his pocket a handkerchief scented with cheap violet cologne.

Harley didn’t even show the good taste of denying my allegations, and went so far as to tell me he loved this other woman and wished me to divorce him. Naturally, I refused and told him that unless he terminated the connection I should not allow him to see Grosvenor again. He capitulated, of course.

I have never had an instant’s doubt that my procedure was the correct one, not only for my sake and Grosvenor’s but for Harley’s as well. After that incident his conduct was unexceptionable; he ceased trying to cross me at every turn and our married life was perfectly happy — until the night he shot himself.

I am giving you this background, Louisa, so that you’ll understand why I was not surprised when Martha reported to me that Grosvenor, like his father before him, had allowed himself to be ensnared by a woman of the most unacceptable type.

I am an extraordinarily perceptive person, Louisa. I was made immediately aware by Martha’s attitude the other day that she had news for me. She came into the room with her eyes sparkling and her lips compressed.

It seems that Grosvenor has been seeing this young woman for nearly two months. Her name is Mary Trent. She is a New Yorker and has been brought to Broome Park to catalogue the new Higgins Collection at the Public Library. This is what comes of importing outside labor.

Martha assured me that Luke Spivens told her that Grosvenor is seen in this young woman’s company constantly. (You remember Luke, don’t you, Louisa? The handyman at the library — a very worthy and reliable old person. I was instrumental in inducing the Library Board to grant him a rise in salary fourteen years ago.) Luke told Martha that Grosvenor calls on this young woman at her lodging house, that they lunch together frequently, and that only last week Miss Trent was seen wearing a nosegay of violets pinned to her dress. Violets! Like father, like son!

Can you imagine the duplicity of this, Louisa? Apparently, everyone in Broome Park learned of Grosvenor’s amour before his mother did. You can imagine my distress. This afternoon I was so exhausted I could barely lift my field glasses to look out of the window. When I complained to Dr. Low, all he did was to increase my dose of prostigmin. Useless, of course. However, I am feeling better now.

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

Broome Park

April 11th

Dear Louisa,

I have seen the woman.

Our reading hour today was farcical. Grosvenor kept interrupting himself to glance at his watch and didn’t even stop at the passages I had marked for discussion. When I asked him if he had a more pressing engagement — satirically, of course — he pretended not to hear. I was tempted to dismiss him, but for the sake of discipline decided to endure his mumblings for the allotted time.

Long before the hour was over he rose and closed the book. With considerable patience I reminded him that it lacked four minutes of three o’clock. He looked at his watch and reluctantly seated himself. I felt that he should be taught a lesson. “You’ve hurried over the marked passages,” I told him. “Would you be so good as to repeat them slowly?”

My patent displeasure seemed to have not the slightest effect on him. As he was leaving the room at three twenty, I gave him a last chance to abandon his deceitful attitude. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Grosvenor?” I asked. For a moment his expression was so much like his father’s that I was startled. He smiled in that dreadful, secretive way that Harley had and said, “No, Mother, there’s nothing I’d like to tell you.” I heard him whistling as he hurried down the stairs, and I noted with surprise that he had left his green bottle of capsules on my table.

In a moment Martha came into the room. “If you want to see why he was in such a rush,” she told me, “just look out the window.” Without pausing to reprimand Martha for eavesdropping on the reading hour — she always has since the day Grosvenor brought home the book by that dreadful D. H. Lawrence — I summoned my energy and walked to the window.

Through my field glasses I saw Grosvenor limping swiftly toward a young woman who came forward to meet him. “She’s been waiting on the corner of Spruce and Summit since three o’clock,” Martha told me. “She was there last Saturday, too.”

Louisa, this person has nothing to recommend her. She is plain, badly dressed, utterly lacking in style, and very nearly Grosvenor’s own age. In feature she rather resembles yourself, and she has a quantity of brown hair pulled back from her face with unbecoming simplicity.

Their exhibition on meeting was disgusting. She held out her hand and Grosvenor shook it rather formally. Then he grasped her left hand as well, behaving more like a schoolboy than a man of thirty four, and they stood clasping hands in the middle of Spruce Street. Grosvenor said something and Miss Trent laughed, for what reason I couldn’t determine. After a moment Grosvenor began to laugh, too. Then he took her arm and they walked off toward Summit Avenue.

This simply cannot go on. I intend to take steps immediately.

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

Broome Park

April 12th

Dear Louisa,

I have just been subjected to a frightful scene. I am utterly exhausted. Only the fact that I am completely in the right gives me the strength to go on.

I resolved to confront Grosvenor with my knowledge of his connection with this woman at our reading hour today. Knowing only too well how rebellious my son is to guidance from myself, I decided to enlist the aid of Dr. Low, whom for some reason Grosvenor respects. After luncheon I sent Martha to summon him.

I must admit Stephen Low arrived promptly. He burst into the room, his face pale and his coat unbuttoned. He stared in astonishment as he saw me sitting upright on the chaise longue. “For God s sake, Sarah,” he said, not very cordially, “what’s all this about? Martha told me you’d had an attack.”

I knew very well what Martha had told him. “Sit down, Stephen,” I said. “This is important.”

“So are my patients, regardless of what you seem to think.” However, he sat down and gave me his attention. He glanced at my new, blue dressing gown and my hair which I’d had Martha dress high especially for the occasion. “Well, my imperishable Sarah, what job do you have for me this time?” he asked. “Is there a grave you want robbed, or merely an old friend to be quietly put out of the way?”

I ignored his tasteless humor. “I have discovered that Grosvenor is involved with a woman, Stephen. I intend to talk to him about it today. I need your help.”

“Do I understand that you want me to give Grosvenor a belated talk on the facts of life?”

Naturally, I ignored the question. I would have given Dr. Low an idea of what I planned to say, but at that instant Grosvenor knocked.

Louisa, I wish I could tell you that my son denied the charges with which I confronted him. But I cannot. When I was finished, Grosvenor said, “Let me congratulate you, Mother. For once you seem to be right about something.”

Dr. Low opened his mouth to remonstrate, but I signaled him to be silent. “May I ask if you’re planning to marry this woman?” I inquired.

Grosvenor looked at me defiantly. “If she’ll have me, yes. I haven’t asked her yet.”

What a relief it was to me that the affair had not yet reached the stage of betrothal! I knew that gentle firmness on my part could still avert catastrophe.

“My dear boy,” I said, with considerable sympathy in my tone, “I see that the time has come when Dr. Low and I must talk to you very seriously about the state of your health.”

Dr. Low gave me a startled glance but fortunately Grosvenor didn’t see it. He stared at me, apprehension dawning in his face. I pursued my advantage. “Out of consideration for your feelings, Grosvenor, Dr. Low has kept it from you but, frankly, you will never be well enough to marry.”

Suddenly Grosvenor covered his face with his hands. I realized that our battle was nearly won. “If you really care for this young woman, you won’t burden her with someone who might well end his days as an invalid,” I pointed out reasonably, and made a gesture indicating to Dr. Low that he was free to corroborate what I had said. I had no wish for him to lie, of course. What I had told Grosvenor might very possibly be so. Who can predict the future?

Louisa, you simply will not credit what happened next. Stephen Low, my friend of half a century’s standing, the man who had always claimed to care for me, a physician whose first duty is surely toward his patient, stood there and calmly gave me the lie!

“That’s utter nonsense, Sarah,” he said. “There’s not a thing wrong with Grosvenor except acute hypochondriasis.”

Grosvenor’s hands were trembling as he took them from his face. “You’re sure?” he said.

Dr. Low put his arm around Grosvenor’s shoulders. I could have slapped them both. “Of course I’m sure! It’s just your mother’s imagination working overtime again. She worries about you too much.”

Grosvenor laughed unpleasantly. “Is that it, Mother?” he asked. “Do you worry about me too much? Is all this sheer excess of mother love?”

Dr. Low tried to protest, but Grosvenor turned savagely and limped toward the door. He left without even saying goodbye.

Louisa, I must admit to you that at this point I nearly became panic-stricken. It seemed highly possible that Dr. Low, by his stupidity, had driven Grosvenor straight into the arms of this woman. When Stephen Low turned to me and said, “Sometimes I wonder about these little blind spots of yours, Sarah,” I lost control of myself completely. I told him to leave my house and never to return.

He laughed that infuriatingly inane laugh of his and reached in his bag for his hypodermic needle. “Hate to be caught, don’t you, Sarah? Roll up that pretty sleeve. It’s time for your injection.”

I repeated my orders to him. He stared at me as though I could not possibly be serious.

“I’ve endured your incompetence long enough,” I told him. “I’ve kept you on mostly out of pity for you. You’ve repaid me with disloyalty of the worst sort. Now I want you to leave.”

I could tell that I’d hit the mark. “I had no idea that my dog-like devotion was so offensive to you, Sarah,” he said. “I’ll relieve you of it as soon as you find another doctor. Meanwhile, you’d better have your injection.”

I am a difficult woman to deceive, Louisa. I was completely aware that his motive in insisting upon the injection was to try to prove to me that he was indispensable. He failed, of course.

I looked him squarely in the eye. “You’re wasting your efforts, Stephen. I know very well that that hypodermic contains nothing but distilled water.”

He simulated astonishment.

“Will you go, please?” I said. “I’m very tired. This unfortunate scene has completely exhausted me.”

“It’s your disease that’s exhausted you, Sarah,” he said brutally. “If you don’t let me give you the prostigmin, you’ll probably be dead by morning.”

A lesser woman might have allowed herself to be blackmailed. I did not. “Spare me the embarrassment of having to send Martha for the police to remove you,” I said coldly.

Well, Louisa, he finally left. I rang for Martha who told me that Grosvenor had left the house and gone in the direction of the library. I have spent the remainder of the afternoon in a state of agitation. Writing to you has calmed me a little. It is nearly dinner time now, and I find that I grow momentarily more tired. Six o’clock is striking. There is a good deal more that I should like to say to you but my hand is trembling from fatigue and I have a feeling of obstruction in my chest. The price of conscience.

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

Broome Park

April 14th

Dear Louisa,

How good it is to be alive! The sun is streaming in through my window and outside I can hear the laughter of children. I very nearly left all this, Louisa. Fortunately I’m better now, although this can be only a short note as Dr. Low has warned me against overexerting myself.

I must confess that I misjudged Stephen Low. He is my truest and most loyal friend, and if it were not for him I should not be here.

Shortly after I sent Martha out to deliver my last letter to you — there are some things in that letter, Louisa, that are perhaps slightly exaggerated — I began to feel very strange. My hands trembled and my breathing became difficult. I lay back among the pillows and gradually a dreadful, cold lassitude began to creep over me. I was completely unable to move my limbs, and lay there helplessly praying that Martha might speedily return. At last I heard her key in the door, but I hadn’t even the strength to pull the bell cord to summon her. I heard her go into the kitchen and commence to prepare my dinner. I gathered all my strength and tried to call out. It was impossible. My breathing became shallower and shallower. Finally, with one last effort, I managed to push the glass off the table at my elbow. For a moment there was silence in the kitchen below and I thought Martha heard. Then the clatter of dishes began again. Consciousness started to fade from me. The last thing I remember is a peremptory ringing of the doorbell and Stephen Low’s voice in the downstairs hall.

Well, Louisa, you have guessed it. Dr. Low’s diagnosis was correct after all. I am a victim of myasthenia. I must admit that it was a considerable shock for me to learn this. However, Dr. Low assures me that I can still look forward to many years of life with the aid of my daily injection of prostigmin.

Louisa, you’ve no idea what effect being near to death has on the human spirit. I have a whole new perspective on everything. I feel that I must be worthy of the Providence that has spared me. I have told Martha that from now on instead of saving the bread crusts to make pudding, she is to spread them for the birds.

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach

P.S.: I have thought of a plan that will once and for all end Grosvenor’s relationship with this impossible young woman.

Broome Park

April 15 th

Dear Louisa,

Thank you for your sympathetic letter and for the bouquet. Violets are not my favorite flower, but I am sure you meant the gift kindly.

I am feeling very well today. Martha has been called home for a few days because of her sister’s illness, and Grosvenor is looking after me. He is inept and stupid, but at least his duties keep him in the house.

I have disposed of the woman.

My plan was simplicity itself. I’m amazed that I didn’t think of it sooner. I merely wrote a short note to Lambert Jones — you will remember Lambert from dancing school: he was the clumsy one with the small head; he is now president of the First National Bank and head of the Library Board. I told Lambert that I wished him to dismiss Mary Trent instantly and send her back to where she came from. I anticipated no difficulty with Lambert — Father’s investments took care of that — and of course there was none. Martha was back within the hour with a message that my request would be complied with and that Lambert himself would put Miss Trent on the six o’clock train to New York. She is undoubtedly on her way to the station at this moment.

Excuse me, Louisa. There is a ringing on the downstairs bell and Grosvenor has gone to open the door. I wonder who it can be. I am not expecting Dr. Low until four.

Louisa, you will find what I am about to tell you nearly incredible. I never, never would have believed such effrontery possible — even from a New Yorker.

I heard Grosvenor open the door and give an exclamation of surprise. A female voice, with an accent that I can only describe as common, said, “Where’s your mother’s room, Grosvenor? I want to talk to her.”

I heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and a peremptory knock. The door burst open.

Yes, Louisa, you have guessed it. It was the Trent woman.

She neither waited for Grosvenor to introduce us nor inquired after my health. “Why did you have me fired from my job, Mrs. Beach?” she demanded.

She didn’t wait for an answer but went on to inform me that denials on my part were useless since Lambert Jones had admitted that it was I who had requested the dismissal. You can imagine the effect of all this on Grosvenor. He looked at me as though had he dared, he would have struck me.

I decided to take a firm stand. “You have been a pernicious influence on my son, Miss Trent,” I said. “My decision is final. Your coming here to plead with me to reverse it is quite useless.”

Besides being insolent, Miss Trent is a fool. As she heard my last words she suddenly burst into laughter. She laughed until I began to fear that I had an hysterical woman in my bedroom. Then she stopped and wiped her eyes.

“Bless you,” she said at last, “you’re straight out of the Boston Museum, aren’t you? I assure you I haven’t come here to plead with you. In fact, now that I think of it, I’m not sure what I did come for.” She turned to Grosvenor and there suddenly were tears in her eyes. The woman is obviously a consummate actress. “Goodbye, Grosvenor,” she said. “Thanks for all the violets.”

I saw a look of indecision creeping into Grosvenor’s eyes. I hunted desperately about for some way of forcing the woman to leave, but I could think of none short of calling the police, and as you know, Louisa, I do not have a telephone. Grosvenor limped toward her and put his hands on her arms. “I can’t let you go,” he said fatuously. “Mary, I can’t let you go”

“Why don’t you come with me?” she asked. The woman was utterly brazen. She took a step toward him and God knows what would have happened with me lying there on the chaise longue helpless to intervene when there was a knock on the door and Dr. Low came into the room.

“Take this woman away, Stephen,” I directed. “My symptoms are increasing.”

I should have known better than to expect Stephen Low to behave intelligently in a crisis. He glanced questioningly from Grosvenor to the woman and Grosvenor seized the opportunity to make a number of accusations against me.

Dr. Low turned to me with a look of injured surprise. “Sarah, you actually had Miss Trent fired?”

I was not in a mood to listen to moralizing from Stephen Low. “Don’t be stupid, Stephen,” I said with perhaps unwarranted candor. “I was perfectly willing to handle the situation in a manner that could not possibly have harmed Miss Trent, but you refused to support me.” I turned to Grosvenor. “Are you determined to marry this woman?”

“Yes, I am, Mother,” Grosvenor replied rather unsteadily.

“Very well,” I said. “Of course I can’t stop you. May I ask what you plan to live on?”

“My income.”

“That will be stopped. I am still executrix of your grandfather’s estate.”

“I can work,” he said.

I looked at his useless leg and smiled. I’m sure you understand, Louisa, that I was being cruel only to be kind. “Can you?” I asked him.

“We’ll get along,” said Miss Trent. But I noticed that Grosvenor was silent. “Come along, darling,” she said. I detest indiscriminate endearments.

“Just one thing more,” I added. It was apparent to me that Grosvenor was once more caught in his usual panic of weak-kneed indecision. “It’s only fair to warn you, Grosvenor, that tomorrow I shall change my will. Since you have ceased to behave toward me as a son, I see no reason why you should reap the benefits of one.”

Miss Trent pretended complete indifference. But the effect on Grosvenor was what I had expected. He looked from the woman to me and back to the woman again. Then he reached in his pocket for the green bottle and hastily gobbled a pill.

Miss Trent, who appears to be possessed of a certain shrewdness where her own interests are concerned, grasped Grosvenor’s arm. “Don’t be a fool, Grosvenor!” she said. “The money doesn’t make any difference.”

Grosvenor pushed his hair back from his forehead. I recognized the gesture. He had acknowledged defeat. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he said.

Well, the long and short of it is that Grosvenor did at last regain his senses. The woman argued, of course, but to no avail. I kept completely out of the discussion so that Grosvenor could make his own decision, and offered no further comment except to remind Miss Trent that if she didn’t hurry she would miss her train. When she left I suggested that Grosvenor see her to the station. I wanted to impress him with the fact that I was not being unreasonable.

By the time they left I was beginning to feel rather tired. It was past time for my injection, and besides I was experiencing the fatigue that one feels after a hard-won victory in a just cause.

When the door closed behind them, I turned my attention to Dr. Low. Louisa, I was shocked at the man’s appearance! He had collapsed into a chair and his hands were covering his face.

“Stephen,” I said, “What is it? Are you ill?” You may be sure that I was very disturbed at his attitude, not only because it was time for my injection but also out of personal concern for him.

He did not reply to my question but raised his face from his hands. He looked very haggard and for the first time it occurred to me that Stephen Low is getting to be an old man. “Why did you do that, Sarah?” he demanded.

I had no intention of justifying my actions to Stephen Low. I simply pointed out that what I had done had been entirely for Grosvenor’s own good. “Furthermore,” I continued, “I’ve given my whole life to Grosvenor, and I don’t see why he should cavalierly abandon me in my old age.”

Dr. Low merely sat there silently, his expression that of a man who has suffered a great shock. I could not and cannot now imagine why he was so upset. “Some day Grosvenor will thank me for ending this unfortunate relationship,” I said reasonably. “I have merely protected him from his own susceptibility, just as I did his father.”

To illustrate my point, I told Dr. Low how I had handled Harley’s deviation. When I had finished he said slowly, “I suppose I always knew it was something like that that made Harley do it.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Harley wasn’t in his right mind when he committed suicide. Everyone knows that people commit suicide because of temporary insanity.” I was really annoyed at his obtuseness, but I maintained my temper. “Come, Stephen, you accused me the other day of having a blind spot. It’s you who have one.”

Dr. Low gave me a long, odd look as though I were a complete stranger to him. For a moment I positively thought that the excitement had unbalanced his mind. Then he became reasonable again. “You’re quite right, Sarah. I do have a blind spot. I’ve had one for nearly fifty years.”

I knew of course that he was referring to his devotion to me — a pun on love being blind, you know. It was a relief to see him his old humorous self again. I told him so and then I held out my arm. “It’s after four o’clock, Stephen,” I reminded him. And added in a joking tone, “You mustn’t forget to give me my distilled water.”

He gave me another of those strange looks. Evidently he hadn’t got the joke. “What did you say, Sarah?”

“My distilled water,” I repeated. “You know, my injection.”

My effort at lightness failed. He relapsed into his peculiar mood. He walked heavily to the window and stood there staring out for a moment. He passed his hand over his hair. Then he turned and said, “All right, Sarah,” and went into the bathroom to prepare the hypodermic.

When he came out he was pale and trembling. “For heaven’s sake, Stephen,” I said, out of patience at last, “you’re behaving like Grosvenor!”

“We have a great deal in common, Grosvenor and I,” he said. He poised the needle over my arm, then stopped.

“Can’t you find the vein?” I inquired.

He disregarded my question. “Sarah, do you really intend to go through with disinheriting Grosvenor?” he asked.

“That depends entirely on him,” I said. “So long as he behaves, I shall postpone the making of a new will. I shall tell him so tomorrow. It should prove a spur to future good conduct.”

“I see,” said Dr. Low. He found the vein and inserted the needle.

He left immediately afterward. He did not recover his good spirits. Poor man, he’s so devoted to me that he’s as disturbed by my troubles as though they were his own to bear.

I’m really very tired — the effect of nerve stress, of course, and then I’ve been writing for nearly two hours. It’s such a comfort to have you as a confidante, Louisa. I feel that you more than anyone else completely understands me. This is rather strange because — well, I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Louisa. At one time I actually believed that you were the woman with whom Harley was having an affaire. Seems ridiculous that I should have thought that, doesn’t it?

I shall really have to stop. I’m so weary that my hand is trembling and I’ve commenced to feel an obstruction in my chest. If I didn’t have so much confidence in Stephen Low, I should be worried about the possibility of another attack. I think I’ll just lock my door so that when Grosvenor comes home I won’t be subjected to discussion or argument.

It must be nearly six o’clock. In a little while the Trent woman will be gone and Grosvenor will be free of her forever. Yes, there’s the whirring sound that Father’s clock always makes a minute before it strikes. Harley used to call it Time holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. It’s getting quite dark and everything is very still. I wonder if it’s going to storm. There’s the hour striking now. I’ve never been so tired. I shall sleep soundly tonight.

Your friend,

Sarah Grosvenor Beach