“Sorry to trouble you,” he said.  “I suppose I’ve made a mistake.  I—­is your nephew at home?”

“No.”

“May I see a picture of him, if you have one?”

David’s wild impulse was to smash Gregory to the earth, to annihilate him.  His collar felt tight, and he pulled it away from his throat.

“Not unless I know why you want to see it.”

“He is tall, rather spare?  And he took a young lady to the theater last night?” Gregory persisted.

“He answers that description.  What of it?”

“And he is your nephew?”

“My brother’s son,” David said steadily.

Somehow it began to dawn on him that there was nothing inimical in this strange visitor, that he was anxious and ill at ease.  There was, indeed, something almost beseeching in Gregory’s eyes, as though he stood ready to give confidence for confidence.  And, more than that, a sort of not unfriendly stubbornness, as though he had come to do something he meant to do.

“Sit down,” he said, relaxing somewhat.  “Certainly my nephew is making no secret of the fact that he went to the theater last night.  If you’ll tell me who you are—­”

But Gregory did not sit down.  He stood where he was, and continued to eye David intently.

“I don’t know just what it conveys to you, Doctor, but I am Beverly Carlysle’s brother.”

David lowered himself into his chair.  His knees were suddenly weak under him.  But he was able to control his voice.

“I see,” he said.  And waited.

“Something happened last night at the theater.  It may be important.  I’d have to see your nephew, in order to find out if it is.  I can’t afford to make a mistake.”

David’s ruddy color had faded.  He opened a drawer of his desk and produced a copy of the photograph of Dick in his uniform.  “Maybe this will help you.”

Gregory studied it carefully, carrying it to the window to do so.  When he confronted David again he was certain of himself and his errand for the first time, and his manner had changed.

“Yes,” he said, significantly.  “It does.”

He placed the photograph on the desk, and sitting down, drew his chair close to David’s.  “I’ll not use any names, Doctor.  I think you know what I’m talking about.  I was sure enough last night.  I’m certain now.”

David nodded.  “Go on.”

“We’ll start like this.  God knows I don’t want to make any trouble.  But I’ll put a hypothetical case.  Suppose that a man when drunk commits a crime and then disappears; suppose he leaves behind him a bad record and an enormous fortune; suppose then he reforms and becomes a useful citizen, and everything is buried.”

Doctor David listened stonily.  Gregory lowered his voice.

“Suppose there’s a woman mixed up in that situation.  Not guiltily, but there’s a lot of talk.  And suppose she lives it down, for ten years, and then goes back to her profession, in a play the families take the children to see, and makes good.  It isn’t hard to suppose that neither of those two people wants the thing revived, is it?”