What do you think of that? he asked as he stood back and folded his
arms.
I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he
took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed
away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a
passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An
idea struck me, and I looked up. Well? he said.
It is like poor Lucy s.
And what do you make of it?
Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured
her has injured them. I did not quite understand his answer:--
That is true indirectly, but not directly.
How do you mean, Professor? I asked. I was a little inclined to take
his seriousness lightly--for, after all, four days of rest and freedom
from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one s spirits--but
when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our
despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.
Tell me! I said. I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to
think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.
Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to
what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by
events, but by me?
Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood.
And how the blood lost or waste? I shook my head. He stepped over and
sat down beside me, and went on:--
You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold;
but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears
hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to
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