d to be swept on by a
reckless madness and at one moment Chris seized me roughly with his hand
and--of course you think this is all an illusion, but--look here!" She
threw open her loose garment and on her beautiful shoulder pointed to
five perfectly plain purple marks that might have been made by the
fingers of a man's hand.

"Extraordinary!" muttered the doctor. "Let me look at this closer. Have
you got such a thing as a magnifying glass? Ah, thank you!"

For some moments he silently studied these strange marks on the fair
young bosom, then he said very gravely: "Mrs. Wells, I want to think
this over before giving an opinion. And I must have a serious talk with
Captain Herrick."

CHAPTER V

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO

For the purposes of this narrative, which is concerned almost
exclusively with the poignant strangeness of a woman's experiences, it
is sufficient to say that Captain Christopher Herrick was what is
generally known as a fine fellow--handsome, modest, well-to-do,
altogether desirable as a lover and a husband. At thirty-five he had
made for himself an enviable position as a New York architect, one who
was able to strike out boldly in new lines while maintaining a
reasonable respect for venerable traditions. He had served gallantly in
the war and he was now, for quite understandable reasons, desperately in
love with Penelope Wells.

On this particular evening when Christopher had been summoned by his
much respected friend, Dr. Owen, to dine and discuss a matter of
immediate importance, the young officer had accepted eagerly. For some
time he had wanted to talk with the doctor about Penelope's nervous
condition. He was drawn to this girl by a force that stirred the depths
of his being--he could not live without her; yet his love was clouded by
anxiety at her strange behavior.

Christopher's face was troubled. His brain was in a turmoil. The
happenings of the last few days bewildered him. Life had seemed so
simple, so beautiful, with just their great love for each other to build
on; but now.... He was only sure of one thing, that from the moment
Penelope Wells had come to him as a ministering angel across the scarred
and broken battle field, he had adored her with a love that would endure
until the day of his death ... and, he told himself, beyond that!

"Chris, my boy," began Owen in his bluff, cheery way when they had
retired to the study for coffee and cigars, "I am in a difficult