Pauline Marvin."
"Run down and 'phone that to the telegraph office," she told Harry. "And now for the packing, Margaret." She thrust a tiny foot in a pink slipper over the edge of the bed.
"But you are ill, Miss Marvin," protested the nurse with a first faint assertion of authority.
"That's so," said Polly. "How can we get around that? Oh, yes; it's time for your airing, dear—and when you come back I shall be well and packed."
"Plenty of air," suggested Harry sarcastically from the doorway, "if it takes you as long to pack as it does to put on your hat."
Pauline flung him a laughing grimace and he strode off to the library. As he was repeating the brief message to the telegraph office he did not hear the light footfalls that ceased at the library door, nor could he see the drawn, gray face of Owen who heard the message spoken over the telephone, and was passing up the stairs with his slow, dignified tread when Harry came into the hall.
"Good morning, Mr. Harry. I see you are quite yourself again.
Yesterday was a terrible day."
"You do look done up," retorted Harry, curtly, as he picked up his hat.
Owen's step was not slow or dignified after the door shut upon Harry.
He sprang up the last stairs and into his own room.
Here on a small writing desk was another telephone. He snatched it up nervously and gave the call number of the place where he had held his first conference with Hicks.