“Going home, Dr. George?” his hostess asked as the young physician made his excuses for quitting the table before the conclusion of the meal.
“Dr. Bigdon is not staying in the house, then?” Gordon queried as the door closed upon him, addressing the remark to the old lady by way of politely including her in the conversation.
“No, he is a neighbor of ours—a close and constant friend to us.” Mrs. Brinn spoke as with grateful appreciation.
Mrs. Keene took a different view. “He just hangs about here on Geraldine's account,” she said. “He happens to be here today because last night she took a notion that he must go all the way to Bogue Holauba to meet you, if the train should stop at the station above; but he was called off to attend a severe case of ptomaine poisoning.”
“And did the man die?” Mrs. Brinn asked, with a sort of soft awe.
“Mercy! I declare I forgot to ask him if the man died or not,” exclaimed Mrs. Keene. “But that was the reason that only a servant was sent to meet you, Mr. Gordon. The doctor looked in this morning to learn if you had arrived safely, and we made him stay to breakfast with us.”
Gordon was regretting that he had let him depart so suddenly.
“I thought perhaps, as he seems so familiar with the place he might show me where Mr. Keene kept his papers. I ought to have them in hand at once.” Mrs. Keene remembered to press her handkerchief to her eyes, and Gordon hastily added, “Since Dr. Big-don is gone, perhaps this lady—what is her name?—Geraldine—could save you the trouble.”
“Mercy, yes!” she declared emphatically. “For I really do not know where to begin to look. Geraldine will know or guess. I'll go straight and rouse Geraldine out of bed.”
She preceded Gordon into the hall, and, flinging over her shoulder the admonition, “Make yourself at home, I beg,” ran lightly up the stairs.