“Dr. Fenton,” he began, “you are a man to be trusted.  I’m in a devil of a fix, and there is just a possibility that you may be able to help me out.  It is the general opinion in New York, as you may know, that Miss Challoner committed suicide.  But the circumstances do not fully bear out this theory, nor can Mr. Challoner be made to accept it.  Indeed, he is so convinced of its falsehood, that he stands ready to do anything, pay anything, suffer anything, to have this distressing blight removed from his daughter’s good name.  Mr. Brotherson was her dearest friend, and as such may have the clew to this mystery, but Mr. Brotherson may not be in a condition to speak for several weeks.  Meanwhile, Mr. Challoner must suffer from great suspense unless—­” a pause during which he searched the doctor’s face with a perfectly frank and inquiring expression—­“unless some one else can help us out.  Dr. Fenton, can you?”

The doctor did not need to speak; his expression conveyed his answer.

“No more than another,” said he.  “Except for what Doris felt compelled to tell me, I know as little as yourself.  Mr. Brotherson’s delirium took the form of calling continually upon one name.  I did not know this name, but Doris did, also the danger lurking in the fact that he had yet to hear of the tragedy which had robbed him of this woman to whom he was so deeply attached.  So she told me just this much.  That the Edith whose name rung so continuously in our ears was no other than the Miss Challoner of New York of whose death and its tragic circumstances the papers have been full; that their engagement was a secret one unshared so far as she knew by any one but herself.  That she begged me to preserve this secret and to give her all the help I could when the time came for him to ask questions.  Especially did she entreat me to be with her at the crisis.  I was, but his waking was quite natural.  He did not ask for Miss Challoner; he only inquired how long he had been ill and whether Doris had received a letter during that time.  She had not received one, a fact which seemed to disappoint him; but she carried it off so gaily (she is a wonderful girl, Mr. Sweetwater—­the darling of all our hearts), saying that he must not be so egotistical as to think that the news of his illness had gone beyond Derby, that he soon recovered his spirits and became a very promising convalescent.  That is all I know about the matter; little more, I take it, than you know yourself.”

Sweetwater nodded; he had expected nothing from the doctor, and was not disappointed at his failure.  There were two strings to his bow, and the one proving valueless, he proceeded to test the other.

“You have mentioned Miss Scott, as the confidante—­and only confidante of this unhappy pair,” said he.  “Would it be possible —­can you make it possible for me to see her?”

It was a daring proposition; he understood this at once from the doctor’s expression; and, fearing a hasty rebuff, he proceeded to supplement his request with a few added arguments, urged with such unexpected address and show of reason that Dr. Fenton’s aspect visibly softened and in the end he found himself ready to promise that he would do what he could to secure his visitor the interview he desired if he would come to the house the next day at the time of his own morning visit.