Marjorie was pacing up and down the living room when the summons came. She had passed the never-ending afternoon she knew not how. Half of the time she had spent upon her knees within the sanctuary of her own room, praying as she had not prayed in years. The remainder of the time she had traveled throughout the house, covering an area of miles, it seemed.
She reached the telephone white and trembling. “Yes,” she faltered, her hands shaking so violently she could scarcely hold the receiver to her ear.
“Mrs. Benton,” Hammond’s voice sounded quite cheerful, “we were detained a little longer than I expected. I know you have been waiting to hear from us.”
“Yes—yes—” came the eager voice, “I’m almost wild with anxiety. Is—is everything all right?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Benton. Everything’s all right, or rather, everything’s going to be all right. The verdict was not exactly what we looked for, but that doesn’t mean a thing outside of a little extra work and inconvenience. There’s not the least necessity for you to worry at all.” He was doing his best to make as light of it as possible.
“What—what was the verdict?” she barely breathed.
It was a second or two before the reply came; then his voice seemed miles away, as he said slowly: “Manslaughter. Here, Mrs. Benton, Howard has something to say to you.” There was no answer. “I say—Mrs. Benton, are you there?” He shook the hook violently. All was silent at the other end of the wire.
Marjorie Benton had slipped quietly to the floor, a little crushed heap of unconsciousness.
Howard snatched the telephone away from Hammond. “Hello, mother, I’m all right. Why don’t you speak? I——”