“Good of you, doctor. But I can’t let you in on this. I’ve got to play a lone hand.”
He was silent a minute and then repeated in a slightly different tone of voice:—
“Yes—I’ve got to play a lone hand....”
CHAPTER IV
DINNER AT FERNLY
It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the front door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable promptitude by Parker, the butler.
The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat. Just then Ackroyd’s secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd’s study, his hands full of papers.
“Good-evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?”
The last was in allusion to my black bag, which I had laid down on the oak chest.
I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement case at any moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond nodded, and went on his way, calling over his shoulder:—