“Oh?”  He lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

     “She answers your requirements,” I said.  “Been through a lot, that girl.  Orphaned at ten. Taken in by her aunt and three years later, witness to the double tragedy - her cousin's death and her aunt's immediate breakdown.”

     “How old is she?” asked Jonny.

     “Aha!”  I wagged a victorious finger.  “I've got you interested.”

     He smiled.  “I'd be a fool not to be interested in a pretty girl.”

     “She's twenty three,” I informed him, “and she's refused every proposal of marriage she's ever had.  Even one from a Maharaja!  She's friendly enough but there’s precious little else I can tell you.  She has a way that discourages even the most innocuous personal probes.  Her private life is … well … private.  Believe me, even her servants know no more than what she discloses to the world.  For the ladies of the community it's horribly frustrating.  Perhaps, with your charm, (tongue-in-cheek) you'll draw aside the veil of her reticence.  She's more than just pretty.  She's deep... she's charming...”  - it wasn't enough; I searched for the right phrase -  “...and she's… serene.  Yes, serene.”

     “Has she a name?” asked Jonny.

     “Estelle.  Estelle Morrison.”

     Estelle's visiting days were Tuesday and Friday at 10.00 o'clock in the morning.  So, on Tuesday I took Jonny with me to the Home.  I left word with the Receptionist to buzz me on the intercom the moment Estelle arrived.  Promptly at ten o'clock, my secretary informed me Miss Morrison was waiting.

     “Send her in.” I came forward from my desk to greet her.

     She entered like royalty, her hand extended toward me.  Her frock of green and white, whirled about her knees.  Her hair, almost black and shining with health, attractively framed her light copper face.  Her large brown eyes reflected bright intelligence.  Her aura of sombre nobility never failed to affect me.

     “Good morning ...”  Her greeting was cut short when her eyes fell upon Jonny.

     “Come in, Estelle,” I said; she did not react.  I took her hand; she seemed unaware of it.  She was staring at Jonny.  Softly, almost to herself, she said: “Coco?”

     Jonny looked at her with positive appreciation.  “Meet Dr. Jonny Kene,” I said.  He threw her a smile to charm Circe herself.  “He's on sabbatical from England,” I explained.  “Plans to loaf for a month.  Then get down to the serious business of gaining experience in his field.  Believe it or not, he's a psychiatrist.”

      Quite oblivious of my chatter, she accepted the hand he held out to her while her eyes searched his face.  Suddenly she shook her head.  “Forgive me, Dr. Kene,” she said, releasing him at last.  “I’ve been rude.  For a moment, you reminded me of someone I knew as a girl.  But he was not nearly so good-looking.”  This last was spoken without hint of coquetry.  Had she not been quite so indifferent, it may have been less embarrassing.

     “Thank you,” replied Jonny, not in the least put out.  “I'm delighted to be able to return the compliment.  It's always refreshing to meet a beautiful woman who speaks plainly.”

     I had never seen Estelle Morrison blush, but here she was, crimson from her neck up. She turned away.  “I was not seeking a compliment,” she said.

     “Neither was I,” returned Jonny.  “All the same, it's pleasant to receive one.”  She gave him a fleeting smile.  “I understand you are here to see your aunt,” continued Jonny.  “I'd be delighted if, afterwards, you'll permit me to take you to lunch.”

     “No... I'm sorry,” said Estelle.

     He ignored her refusal.  “It'll be infinitely more pleasant than staring across the table at Trevor.”

     “Thank you very much!” said I.

     “I...I'm afraid I can't today.”  I sensed apprehension in Estelle's reluctance.

     “Tomorrow, then,” persisted Jonny.

     “No... not tomorrow.”

     “I'll pick you up on Saturday night.  Eight o'clock.”

     “Call me.”  She was evasive.  “Trevor has my number.  Now, if you'll excuse me...”

      She hurried to the door; I opened it for her.  As she passed, she gave me a perfunctory smile and I could not help but observe that her cheeks still glowed.

     The whole community was agog when Estelle did go out with Jonny.  Who could deflect his persistence?  They were seen at the cinema and, later, at a local nightclub.  She had never before indulged in such frivolity. The more unkind commented they could not understand how her majesty could permit her royal person to be jostled by the rank and file on the dance floor.  Those who thought her a premature old maid (poor thing!) were anxious to see if this caper would finally end in a marriage knot.  Over Jonny, the women sighed:  “Dr. Kene is soooo dashing, isn't he?”

     For myself, I am mortified to admit I couldn't control my curiosity.  I felt my relationship to Jonny - in loco parentis, as it were - gave me the right to probe.  All I got for my pains was a charming snub.

     About a week later, Jonny approached me in my office.  “Would you mind if I worked with Mrs. Jacobson, Trevor?”

     “Mrs. Jacobson?” 

     “Yes.”

     “Jonny,” I explained, “an army of psychiatrists have tried to reach her.  Estelle has spent a fortune - even brought Sir William Lewis-Barrington over from London two years ago.  Incidentally, you've had quite an effect on her.  I've never seen her so - um, what shall I say? - involved.”

     “Involved in what?” said Jonny.  He could be quite infuriating.

     “Oh, I don't know.  In life, if you like.”

     “We're talking of Mrs. Jacobson,” he said.

     “Don't waste your time, Jonny.  You should know there's a dimension no one can reach.  As she can't speak, it's unlikely we'll ever know what blocks her progress.”

     “Nevertheless,” said Jonny, ever persistent.

     “Save yourself the frustration.  I've informed my friend, Dr. Abinash Mukerjee, who's in charge of the Calcutta Mental Hospital, you'll be round to see him shortly.  All I need do is lift the telephone receiver.”

     “Thanks, Trevor, but I may be the one person who can help Mrs. Jacobson.  I'd like to try.”

     “Dr. Mukerjee is desperate for help.” I persisted.

     Jonny grinned at me.  I shrugged in irritation and blurted:  “Very well.  Go ahead.  I certainly don't mind.”  I wagged a boorish finger in his face.  “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

     “One small thing, Trevor.” He rose to leave.  “Don't let Estelle know about this, please.”

    “Why?” I asked.  He smiled enigmatically.  “Oh, as you wish!”  My exasperation was evident.

     He turned at the door.  “Trevor...”

     I raised a frowning face.  He flashed a broad beam.  “Thanks!”

     I had to smile back.  “Get out!” I said.  “And the best of British luck!”

     Jonny was adamant none but Mrs. Jacobson's nurse be permitted in her room.  He requested I too, observe this rule.  I insisted the nurse report her progress, if any, to me.

     “Damn it all!” I expostulated.  “She's my patient!”

     Four days later, fluttering excitedly, the nurse reported:  “She turned and looked at me!  Oh, Doctor, she actually turned her head!” 

     Progress was rapid.  She moved her fingers three days later.  Hand movements followed.  Shortly thereafter, the nurse found her with tear-stained cheeks; memories were returning.  I was at a loss to understand.  “You've done wonders,” I told Jonny over the dinner table.  “What are you using on her?”

     “Sodium Pentothal.”

     “But that's been tried before,” I protested.

     He forked a piece of curried chicken into his mouth.  I eyed him suspiciously.  “What else?”

     He shrugged and produced his smile.

     “When can I see her?” I pressed.

     “Oh, in about a week.” He pushed his chair back.

     “What about dessert?”

     “I'm meeting Estelle.  We'll grab an ice-cream at Magnolias.”

      And he was gone.

     Exactly seven days later he ushered me into Mrs. Jacobson's room.  “Here's your doctor, Mrs. J,” he said, addressing the living corpse.  “He's taken good care of you.”

Mrs. Jacobson turned.  Her eyes, bleary but comprehending, searched for mine.  Lazarus had come forth.  She extended her hand.  I took it and kissed it.  “I am delighted with your progress, Mrs. Jacobson,” I cried.

     “There's no need to raise your voice, Trevor,” said Jonny.  “Mrs. Jacobson hears perfectly well.  Don't you, Mrs. Jacobson?”

     Lazarus nodded.

     The following day, Jonny permitted Estelle to visit her aunt.  I waited outside.  When they emerged ten minutes later, Estelle was struggling to maintain her composure.

    “Thank you, Jonny,” she said.  “You will never know how grateful I am.”

    “Prove it,” he returned.  Her answer was a faint smile.  “I'll call for you tonight,” he said, leading her down the corridor.  “This silliness must stop.  In any case, you have to acknowledge we do have something to celebrate.”

     “It's hard enough as it is, Jonny,” I heard her say.  “Don't make it any harder.”

     “I'll call for you tonight.”  Forceful chap, our Jonny!

     As I was finishing a lonely dinner, Jonny came in looking rather down-in-the-mouth.

     “Hello, Jonny.” I looked at my watch.  “What are you doing back so early?”  He sat down silent and disconsolate.  “Have you eaten anything?  Bearer, bring a plate for the sahib.”

     “I don't want anything,” said Jonny.

     “Come now, Jonny, this isn't like you.”

     “I'm sorry, Trevor.”  He pulled himself together.  “I've no business behaving like this.  You deserve an explanation.  The fact is, I need some advice.”

     “Anything I can do, old fellow.” I sat back to listen.

     He had called for her early that evening and instructed the driver to take them to the Strand, a quiet, romantic road along the banks of the Hooglie River.  The diamond ring he had purchased was in his pocket.  He was happy and sure of himself.  When the car was parked, he told the driver to take a walk.  He turned to Estelle.  “What say you to a honeymoon in Hong Kong?”  She stared at him with a strange, hurt look.  “I had planned to get down on my knees,” he continued, “but the conditions are a bit cramped.”

     Two large tears slid down her cheeks.  She kissed him chastely on the mouth, put her arms around him and drew her body close to his, laying her head on his shoulder.

    Presently she pulled away and began to shake.

     “Oh, Jonny!” she sobbed.  “I can't!  I can't!”

     “Why can't you?” he demanded.  “You love me, don't you?”

     “So much, it hurts,” she confessed.  “But I must refuse you.”

     “Talk sense, Estelle,” he said, forcing her to face him.  “No riddles.  No games.”

     At this point in his narrative, Jonny rose from the dining table and began to pace. 

     Lighting a cigarette, he continued through a cloud of smoke.  “Her face was contorted; her voice barely audible.  ‘I am guilty of murder,’ she said.”  Jonny turned to my shocked, incredulous face and repeated: “Yes, she did say murder!  And having said it, she sobbed with horrible intensity.” He scraped back a chair and, once again, sat down.  “It was impossible to get any coherence from her.  She kept repeating: ‘Murder!  Murder!’  I had to slap her to bring her to some degree of control.  I called to the driver.  We drove to the Nursing Home, where I gave her a sedative.  I then took her home and instructed her ayah to put her to bed."