I had no further contact with the Draingers for some days. Indeed, the
whole curious episode was beginning to fade in my mind when, some three
weeks later, a dinner that Helen was giving recalled my experience and
added fresh interest to my relations with them. I sat next to one of
those conventionally pretty women who require only the surface of one's
attention, and I was preparing to be bored for the rest of the evening
when I caught a chance remark of Isobel Allyn's.
Mrs. Allyn (everybody calls her Isobel) was talking across the table to
Dr. Fawcett.
"You've lost your mysterious veiled lady," she said.
"Yes," said Fawcett.
Fawcett is a good fellow, about forty-five, and inclined to be
reticent.
"Veiled lady?" shrilled some feminine nonentity, much to Fawcett's
distaste. "How thrilling! Do tell us about it!"
"There is nothing to tell," growled Fawcett.
Isobel, however, is not easily swept aside.
"Oh, yes, there is," she persisted. "Dr. Fawcett has for years had a
mysterious patient whose face, whenever he visits her, remains
obstinately invisible. Now, without revealing her features, the lady has
had the bad taste to die."