The association between anxiety and David's illness had always been
apparent in Dick's mind, but now he began to surmise a concrete shock, a
person, a telegram, or a telephone call. And after dinner that night he
went back to the kitchen.

"Minnie," he inquired, "do you remember the afternoon Doctor David was
taken sick?"

"I'll never forget it."

"Did he receive a telegram that day?"

"Not that I know of. He often answers the bell himself."

"Do you know whether he had a visitor, just before you heard him fall?"

"He had a patient, yes. A man."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know. He was a stranger to me."

"Do you remember what he looked like?"

Minnie reflected.

"He was a smallish man, maybe thirty-five or so," she said. "I think he
had gaiters over his shoes, or maybe light tops. He was a nice appearing
person."

"How soon after that did you hear Doctor David fall?"

"Right away. First the door slammed, and then he dropped."

Poor old David! Dick had not the slightest doubt now that David had
received some unfortunate news, and that up there in his bedroom ever
since, alone and helpless, he had been struggling with some secret dread
he could not share with any one. Not even with Lucy, probably.