“Yes, sir,” answered the girl, dipping her plump hands in a pink solution.

All this time Alice had been haunted by the crawling hands of the clock.  Luxurious as was her house of marble, it was a dreary domain at best to-day, as she sat in the small square room that lay hidden beyond the conservatory of cool palms and exotic plants screening one end of the dining room—­a room her very own, and one to which only the chosen few were ever admitted; a jewel box of a room indeed, whose walls, ceiling and furniture were in richly carved teak.  A corner, by the way, in which one could receive an old friend and be undisturbed.  There was about it, too, a certain feeling of snug secrecy which appealed to her, particularly the low lounge before the Moorish fireplace of carved alabaster, which was well provided with soft pillows richly covered with rare embroideries.  To-day none of these luxuries appealed to the woman seated among the cushions, gazing nervously at the fire.  What absorbed her were the hands of the clock, crawling slowly toward five.

* * * * *

He did not keep her waiting.  He was ahead of time, in fact—­Blakeman leading him obsequiously through the fragrant conservatory.

“Ah—­it is you, doctor!” she exclaimed in feigned surprise as the butler started to withdraw.

“Yes,” he laughed; “I do hope I’m not disturbing you, dear lady.  I was passing and dropped in.”

Alice put forth her hand to him frankly and received the warm pressure of his own.  They waited until the sound of Blakeman’s footsteps died away in the conservatory.

“He’s gone,” she whispered nervously.

“What has happened?” asked the doctor with sudden apprehension.

“Everything,” she replied womanlike, raising her eyes slowly to his own.  Impulsively he placed both hands on her shoulders.

“You are nervous,” he said, his gaze riveted upon her parted lips.  He felt her arms grow tense—­she threw back her head stiffly and for a moment closed her eyes as if in pain.

“Don’t!” she murmured—­“we must be good friends—­good friends—­do you understand?”

“Forgive me,” was his tactful reply.  He led her to the corner of the lounge and with fresh courage covered her hand firmly with his own.  “See—­I am sensible,” he smiled—­“we understand each other, I think.  Tell me what has happened.”

“Sam,” she murmured faintly, freeing her hand—­“Sam has dared to treat me like—­like a child.”

“You!  I don’t believe it—­you?  Nonsense, dear friend.”

“You must help me,” she returned in a vain effort to keep back the tears.

“Has he been brutal to you?—­jealous?—­impossible!” and a certain query gleamed in his eyes.

“Yes, brutal enough.  I never believed him capable of it.”

“I believe you, but it seems strange—­psychologically impossible.  Why, he’s not that kind of a man.”