We found the patient-reclining in an easy chair, swathed in bandages, a wreck of her former self.  I felt the tragedy keenly.  All that social position and beauty had meant to her had been suddenly blasted.

“You will pardon my presumption,” began Craig, “but, Mrs. Close, I assure you that I am actuated by the best of motives.  We represent the New York Star—­”

“Isn’t it terrible enough that I should suffer so,” she interrupted, “but must the newspapers hound me, too?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Close,” said Craig, “but you must be aware that the news of your suit of Dr. Gregory has now become public property.  I couldn’t stop the Star, much less the other papers, from talking about it.  But I can and will do this, Mrs. Close.  I will see that justice is done to you and all others concerned.  Believe me, I am not here as a yellow journalist to make newspaper copy out of your misfortune.  I am here to get at the truth sympathetically.  Incidentally, I may be able to render you a service, too.”

“You can render me no service except to expedite the suit against that careless doctor—­I hate him.”

“Perhaps,” said Craig.  “But suppose someone else should be proved to have been really responsible?  Would you still want to press the suit and let the guilty person escape?”

She bit her lip.  “What is it you want of me?” she asked.  I merely want permission to visit your rooms at your home and to talk with your maid.  I do not mean to spy on you, far from it; but consider, Mrs. Close, if I should be able to get at the bottom of this thing, find out the real cause of your misfortune, perhaps show that you are the victim of a cruel wrong rather than of carelessness, would you not be willing to let me go ahead?  I am frank to tell you that I suspect there is more to this affair than you yourself have any idea of.”

“No, you are mistaken, Mr. Kennedy.  I know the cause of it.  It was my love of beauty.  I couldn’t resist the temptation to get rid of even a slight defect.  If I had left well enough alone I should not be here now.  A friend recommended Dr. Gregory to my husband, who took me there.  My husband wishes me to remain at home, but I tell him I feel more comfortable here in the hospital.  I shall never go to that house again—­the memory of the torture of sleepless nights in my room there when I felt my good looks going, going”—­she shuddered—­“is such that I can never forget it.  He says I would be better off there, but no, I cannot go.  Still,” she continued wearily, “there can be no harm in your talking to my maid.”

Kennedy noted attentively what she was saying.  “I thank you, Mrs. Close,” he replied.  “I am sure you will not regret your permission.  Would you be so kind as to give me a note to her?”

She rang, dictated a short note to a nurse, signed it, and languidly dismissed us.

I don’t know that I ever felt as depressed as I did after that interview with one who had entered a living death to ambition, for while Craig had done all the talking I had absorbed nothing but depression.  I vowed that if Gregory or anybody else was responsible I would do my share toward bringing on him retribution.