But Marjorie’s sharp ears had caught the word “sick.” Griggs must have been talking about Howard. Oh, where was he—her boy! She could not stand it! She had to find out.
Careless of guests, of hospitality, of everything, she hurried after her husband, but already he was out of sight. He must be at one of the private telephones, she thought, as she stumbled blindly along the passage.
But her way would have been still more blind had she seen her husband with her son at that moment.
At a side entrance two men were trying to persuade Howard to leave a taxi. In a maudlin state of intoxication, he refused to budge an inch, muttering to himself something about “a date with a lil’ blonde.”
Ordering the passageway clear, Hugh and Griggs managed between them to convey the indignantly-protesting Howard upstairs to his room.
From the telephone, the boy’s mother hastened to his room. They must have brought him home and told her nothing about it. Inside she heard voices. She knocked softly, and was about to enter, when it was opened and Hugh stood before her, quickly closing the door behind him.
“My boy?” she asked breathlessly. “What has happened? Is he here? Is he ill?”
Hugh was uncomfortable—flustered. “Ill?—No—yes—that is, he is ill—but he will soon be all right.”
“I will go to him at once,” and Marjorie started to brush by Hugh.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” he answered sternly. “You will return to your guests, and act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I will join you as soon as possible—we can’t both remain away.”