The next morning Ferdinand waited for the usual summons from Embury’s bedroom. The tea tray was ready, the toast crisp and hot, but the summons of the bell was unusually delayed.
When the clock pointed to fifteen minutes past the hour Ferdinand tapped on Embury’s door. A few moments later he tapped again, rapping louder.
Several such attempts brought no response, and the valet tried the door. It would not open, so Ferdinand went to Eunice’s door and knocked there.
Jumping from her bed, and throwing a kimono round her, Eunice opened her own door.
Ferdinand started at sight of her white face, but recovered himself, and said, “Mr. Embury, ma’am. He doesn’t answer my knock. Can he be ill?”
“Oh, I guess not,” Eunice tried to speak casually, but miserably failed. “Go through that way.” She pointed to the door between her room and her husband’s.
Ferdinand hesitated. “You open it, Mrs. Embury, please,” he said, and his voice shook.
“Why, Ferdinand, what do you mean? Open that door!”
“Yes, ma’am,” and turning the knob, Ferdinand entered.
“Why, he’s still asleep!” he exclaimed. “Shall I wake him?”