Dr. Trent looked at her blankly and fumbled¹ among his recollections.

 

“Er—Miss—Miss—”

 

“Mrs. Snaith,” said Valancy quietly. “I was Miss Valancy Stirling when I came to you last May—over a year ago. I wanted to consult you about my heart.”

 

Dr. Trent’s face cleared.

 

“Oh, of course. I remember now. I’m really not to blame for not knowing you. You’ve changed—splendidly. And married. Well, well, it has agreed with you. You don’t look much like an invalid² now, hey? I remember that day. I was badly upset. Hearing about poor Ned bowled me over. But Ned’s as good as new and you, too, evidently. I told you so, you know—told you there was nothing to worry over.”

 

Valancy looked at him.

 

“You told me, in your letter,” she said slowly, with a curious feeling that some one else was talking through her lips, “that I had angina pectoris—in the last stages—complicated with an aneurism. That I might die any minute—that I couldn’t live longer than a year.”

 

Dr. Trent stared at her.

 

“Impossible!” he said blankly. “I couldn’t have told you that!”

 

Valancy took his letter from her bag and handed it to him.

 

“Miss Valancy Stirling,” he read. “Yes—yes. Of course I wrote you—on the train—that night. But I told you there was nothing serious——”

 

“Read your letter,” insisted Valancy.

 

Dr. Trent took it out—unfolded it—glanced over it. A dismayed look came into his face. He jumped to his feet and strode agitatedly³ about the room.

 

“Good heavens! This is the letter I meant for old Miss Jane Sterling⁴. From Port Lawrence. She was here that day, too. I sent you the wrong letter. What unpardonable carelessness! But I was beside myself that night. My God, and you believed that—you believed—but you didn’t—you went to another doctor——”

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