“Jim,” Alford found voice to say, “I’m afraid I’m losing my mind.”

The doctor smiled provisionally.  “Well, that’s one of the signs you’re not.  Can you say how?”

“Oh yes.  In a minute,” Alford sobbed, and when he had got the better of himself he told his friend the whole story.  In the direct examination he suppressed Mrs. Yarrow’s part, but when the doctor, who had listened with smiling seriousness, began to cross-examine him with the question, “And you don’t remember that any outside influence affected the recurrence of the illusions, or did anything to prevent it?” Alford answered promptly:  “Oh yes.  There was a woman who did.”

“A woman?  What sort of a woman?”

Alford told.

“That is very curious,” the doctor said.  “I know a man who used to have a distressing dream.  He broke it up by telling his wife about it every morning after he had dreamt it.”

“Unluckily, she isn’t my wife,” Alford said, gloomily.

“But when she was with you, you got rid of the illusions?”

“At first, I used to see hers; then I stopped seeing any.”

“Did you ever tell her of them?”

“No; I didn’t.”

“Never tell anybody?”

“No one but you.”

“And do you see them now?”

“No.”

“Do you think, because you’ve told me of them?”

“It seems so.”

The doctor was silent for a marked space.  Then he asked, smiling:  “Well, why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Tell your wife.”

“How, my wife?”

“By marriage.”

Alford looked dazed.  “Do you mean Mrs. Yarrow?”

“If that’s her name, and she’s a widow.”

“And do you think it would be the fair thing for a man on the verge of insanity—­a physical and mental wreck—­to ask a woman to marry him?”

“In your case, yes.  In the first place, you’re not so bad as all that.  You need nothing but rest for your body and change for your mind.  I believe you’ll get rid of your illusions as soon as you form the habit of speaking of them promptly when they begin to trouble you.  You ought to speak of them to some one.  You can’t always have me around, and Mrs. Yarrow would be the next best thing.”

“She’s rich, and you know what I am.  I’ll have to borrow the money to rest on, I’m so poor.”

“Not if you marry it.”

Alford rose, somewhat more vigorously than he had sat down.  But that day he did not go beyond ascertaining that Mrs. Yarrow was in town.  He found out the fact from the maid at her door, who said that she was nearly always at home after dinner, and, without waiting for the evening of another day, Alford went to call upon her.

She said, coming down to him in a rather old-fashioned, impersonal drawing-room which looked distinctly as if it had been left to her:  “I was so glad to get your card.  When did you leave Woodbeach?”