Three weeks passed and Paula still felt the terrible shock of little Annie's death. The sad affair had made such an impression on her sensitive nature that she was compelled to give up her Settlement work temporarily if not altogether. For days she was haunted by the wretched mother's face; that scream of despair still rang in her ears.  
For some time she had been thinking of leaving town and going somewhere for a rest. Certainly she needed it. Her nerves were all unstrung; she felt more low-spirited and than ever. With her music and her books she tried to shake off the that weighed upon her, but without much success. The book dropped from her listless hands and she found herself even of thinking, her mind constantly filled with a vague, indefinable feeling of uneasiness.
 
Both Mr. Ricaby and Tod tried their best to cheer her up, insisting that there was nothing to worry about. It was ten months now since her uncle was appointed of her estate. In two months more his would be at an end, and she would be legally entitled to come into her own. Yet, in spite of this , strange seized the girl. What new move were her uncle and Bascom Cooley ? She had heard nothing of them for weeks, but that in itself meant nothing. Under the circumstances, such silence was, perhaps, all the more suspicious.
 
Why had her uncle spoken to this Dr. Zacharie, the nerve specialist, about her? How frightened she had been that fatal afternoon in Mrs. Hughes' when she first saw the doctor. As he stood staring at her, with those black, piercing eyes and smile of his he looked exactly like the terrible man in her dream. Of course, that was silly, but she could not overcome her first aversion to the man. Since the accident he had called at the boarding house several times on the of inquiring after her health, and on each occasion she noticed that he looked at her strangely. Why did he come so often—by what right did he stare at her and question in that searching, inquisitional manner? In future, she would not allow it. She would resent it as an intolerable impertinence. If he came again she would refuse to see him.
 
One afternoon she was home, alone. The weather was stormy and had spoiled a little shopping excursion arranged with one of her Settlement friends. At a loss what to do in order to kill time, she thought she would practice a little, so going to the piano, she played a few bars. This soon tired her. Finding she had no mind for music, she picked up a book and tried to read. But she found it impossible to become interested. For some reason she could not explain she felt nervous and ill at ease. Depressing fancies came crowding into her brain. There was nothing particularly to worry about, yet something within told her that a critical moment in her affairs was fast approaching. She was growing more and more uncomfortable, when suddenly there came a rap at the door. she jumped up, wondering who it could be. Surely Mrs. Parkes would not knock, and she had not heard the front doorbell.
 
"Come in," she called out timidly.
 
The door opened and Dr. Zacharie appeared on the threshold, bowing and smiling.
 
Dr. Louis Zacharie belonged to that class of medical , limited happily in number, who do not hesitate to disgrace a noble profession for love of . An , he called himself a nerve specialist, and with the help of one or two yellow newspapers ever ready to print any trash so long as it was , had succeeded in getting himself talked about as an authority on nervous diseases. Silly women and foolish men believed he extraordinary powers to cure their imaginary , and flocked in crowds to his waiting rooms. Society took him up. It became the fashion to consult him. Soon he was so busy that he could be seen by appointment only, and money flowed into his coffers. A man of magnetic personality, with some skill as a hypnotist, he had no difficulty in persuading his patients that they were in a very alarming condition, and that only the closest care at his hands could save them from total nervous and worse. His real character as an unprincipled was, of course, well known to all his medical colleagues, but he was clever enough to cover up his tracks and thus managed to escape disciplinary action by the Medical Society. He was a comparative newcomer in New York, but in the West he had blazed a long trail of . Driven from San Francisco for malpractice, he turned up in Denver, where he again aroused the authorities to action. He fled to Chicago and for a time kept from public notice. Then there was a new scandal, and once more he disappeared, to turn up two or three years later in[Pg 183] New York. In the his peculiar talents seemed to find a more profitable field. Within a short time he found himself one of the most successful and fashionable specialists in the city.
 
One day he found among the patients in his reception room a big, man who introduced himself as Bascom Cooley. The doctor had already heard of the criminal lawyer, and for a moment was inwardly , thinking the visit might have some connection with his past history. But Mr. Cooley soon put him at his ease. He had called on behalf of a friend of his, Mr. James . They understood that he, Dr. Zacharie, was an expert on all nervous . There was a case in Mr. Marsh's family that they believed needed watching. Would the doctor be willing to come to Mr. Marsh's house for a conference? The doctor looked at the lawyer and the lawyer looked at the doctor. Each understood the other. There was money in it—big money. That it. Dr. Zacharie went that same night to West Seventy-second Street, and ever since had evinced a warm interest in James Marsh's .
 
Paula's face flushed with . Going hastily forward, she said:
 
"I am afraid I cannot see you, doctor."
 
Not in the least by this reception,Dr. Zacharie advanced into the room, the sardonic smile round his thin, cruel mouth.
 
"I won't detain you a minute— I have come to say good-by," he said .
 
Thinking that she might get rid of him the more quickly by a pretense at politeness, Paula said more :
 
"Are you leaving town, doctor?"
 
The question was unfortunate for, thus encouraged, he took a seat uninvited, and drew off his gloves with deliberate slowness.
 
"Just a few words before I go." Fixing her with his black eyes, he went on: "You know, your case interests me—so much——"
 
"My case?" echoed Paula, coldly elevating her as if not comprehending his meaning.
 
He nodded.
 
"When I first saw you the day of that unfortunate accident I said to myself——"
 
He stopped and shook his head . Then, after a pause, he continued:
 
"I said to myself, she's a fine, highly strung girl, who needs care and attention, and, above all—rest—rest. Yes, your brain needs rest. It is over-worked—you think too much—the wheels go round too fast."
 
"Yes?" said Paula, trying to her growing .
 
The doctor smiled.
 
"You don't mind my sitting down, do you?" he asked.
 
"Not in the least—if you wish to," she replied , without making a move to take a seat herself.
 
He sat in silence, watching her stealthily.
 
"Won't you sit down, too?" he said. "We will talk a little."
 
She shook her head decisively.
 
"No—I—I can't talk to you. I had made up my mind never to see you again. I'll be frank, Dr. Zacharie, you have a effect on me."
 
He smiled again, a , horrible smile, which made her .
 
"That is because I tell you the truth," he said, blinking his eyes. "You don't like to hear about your state of mind."
 
"No. For I don't believe what you say," she retorted hotly. "My health—my mind—is as clear as yours. I am only tired. I'm weary to death of this awful . I am compelled to stay in-doors, to keep my door locked so that they shan't serve me with any one of those dreadful papers[Pg 186] summoning me to appear, to answer, to show cause, to answer endless questions. Even when you knocked just now my heart began to beat."
 
He his shoulders as if the symptoms she described confirmed only too well his .
 
"You see," he cried, "you are all nerves! There is great danger there—hidden dangers that only we men of science can see."
 
Starting involuntarily, she exclaimed :
 
"Hidden danger! What do you mean? Why do you tell me these things? Do you think it does me any good to hear them? Last time you were here, doctor, I asked you not to call again. I told you I needed no further professional advice. I am perfectly well—and strong—and—and—and——"
 
She stopped and stared at him, as if struck with a new idea.
 
"You see," he cried quickly, "you cannot even finish your sentence. You have forgotten what you were going to say."
 
"No," she replied , "I was just thinking—something flashed across my mind. Dr. Zacharie, you were sent here by Uncle James to watch me."
 
"To watch you?" he echoed with well-simulated surprise.
"Yes," she said firmly. "To watch me—am I right?"
 
He shrugged his shoulders.
 
"Your uncle is anxious about you, of course—why not? You have said many strange things about him. He is actually afraid for you, and for himself. It's natural enough. But come, don't let us speak of him. That is the one subject that we should never mention before you. It is your—your—what shall I call it—that the non-scientific person may understand?"
 
Paula paced nervously up and down the room. What did these insinuations mean? What was the real object of this ambiguous questioning? She was about to retort angrily, when the door opened, and to her great relief Mrs. Parkes entered.
 
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said the , about to withdraw.
 
"Don't go, please," cried Paula, going forward. "I want to see you, Mrs. Parkes. Dr. Zacharie is just going." Turning to dismiss him without further ceremony, she said curtly: "Good-by, doctor. Please thank my uncle, and tell him I don't need medical attention."
 
Dr. Zacharie rose and bowed. He understood that he was unceremoniously dismissed, but he was not the kind of man to easily lose his .
 
"As you wish," he said, as he rose and went toward the door, "but you will be careful—won't you?" Impressively he added:
 
"Remember—there is danger—great danger of total collapse. Your nerves need watching. The slightest imprudence——"
 
"Lord sakes, doctor, you're not very comforting!" cried Mrs. Parkes.
 
"I always tell my patients the truth," replied the doctor. "It is better."
 
"Then I'm glad I'm not your patient," retorted the landlady promptly. "Give me the good, cheerful lie that comforts, even if it ain't true. My experience with Parkes taught me that, Paula— I was only happy when he was lying to me."
 
"Well, I have warned you, Miss Marsh," repeated the doctor, &q............