Paul Quentin by Fred M. White — Read

Dugdale could have sworn afterwards that he had half expected some such reply. He stammered an apology and turned and looked at the doctor again. At any other time he might have betrayed his astonishment in the discovery he was about to make. For this grave, professional-looking man in the close-fitting grey frock was actually wearing a string of diamonds round his neck, and a star of the same stones glittered on his forehead, attached by a band of black velvet. Dugdale wondered whether he had not strayed into a private lunatic asylum. But there was no hint of insanity in the cold, hard beauty in the armchair, although there was nothing very human about her except a half-pathetic, half-pleading look in her dark eyes. Then Dugdale saw something more. He saw that this mysterious Dr Prince carried something gleaming in his right hand, which the trained eye of the traveller immediately recognised as a small, ivory-handled, silver-plated revolver.

Here was an adventure, then. Here was a high comedy which might at any moment materialise into tragedy stark and ghastly. Dugdale's errand faded from his mind. He began to realise that his presence here might be more necessary than the fulfilment of his original errand. His muscles stiffened, and his courage came back to him.