“I’m sorry, Thax,” he repeated heavily. “And I’m going. I’d rather. It’ll be pleasanter all around. If I can bother you to phone for a taxi I’ll go up and get my things together.”
“No!” urged Thaxton, touched by his chum’s misery. “No, no, old man. Don’t be so silly. I tell you it’s all—”
But Creede had slumped out of the room. Vail followed at his heels, still protesting noisily against the invalid’s decision.
Miss Gregg watched them go. Then she turned to Doris. There was something defiant, something almost apprehensive, in the old lady’s aspect as she faced her niece.
“Well?” she challenged.
Doris sprang to her feet, her great dark eyes regarding Miss Gregg with fascinated horror.
“Oh, Auntie!” she breathed, accusingly. “Auntie!”
“Well,” bluffed the old lady with a laudable effort at swagger, “what then?”
“Aunt Hester!” exclaimed the girl. “It was I who couldn’t sleep a wink last night. Not you. I heard the stable clock strike every single hour from twelve to three. And—”
“Well,” argued Miss Gregg, “what if you did? It’s nothing to boast about, is it? Have you any monopoly on hearing stable clocks strike? Have—?”