The nurse left the room. No longer was there the laughing look on her face. This was serious business.
A few minutes later she reappeared, carrying gingerly a small dog basket. Mrs. Blake lifted the lid. Inside was a beautiful little “Peke,” and it was easy to see that Buster was indeed ill.
“Who is your doctor?” asked Craig, considering.
“Dr. Rae Wilson, a very well-known woman physician.”
Kennedy nodded recognition of the name. “What does she say?” he asked, observing the dog narrowly.
“We haven’t told anyone, outside, of it yet,” replied Mrs. Blake. “In fact until Buster fell sick, I thought it was a hoax.”
“You haven’t told anyone?”
“Only Reginald and my daughter Betty. Betty is frantic—not with fear for herself, but with fear for me. No one can reassure her. In fact it was as much for her sake as anyone’s that I sent for you. Reginald has tried to trace the thing down himself, but has not succeeded.”
She paused. The door opened and Reginald Blake entered. He was a young fellow, self confident and no doubt very efficient at the new dances, though scarcely fitted to rub elbows with a cold world which, outside of his own immediate circle, knew not the name of Blake. He stood for a moment regarding us through the smoke of his cigarette.
“Tell me just what you have done,” asked Kennedy of him as his mother introduced him, although he had done the talking for her over the telephone.