“No,” said Stacey dully, “no. Come on!”
“Slowly—through the office. No fuss. Got to smile. Latimer said so.” It was as though Ames were reciting a ritual.
Together they went down in the elevator and out of the building. It was August, but the car that Ames had brought was a closed car. “Latimer again,” thought Stacey, with a touch of loathing beneath the horror that filled his mind. They set off swiftly.
“It’s—Marian,” said Ames. “She shot herself this morning. Dying. She—asks for you.” He looked at Stacey—dully rather than with hatred.
It was this, of course, or something like it, Stacey knew already; but to hear it in words was abominable. A chill ran over his body. He felt physically nauseated. He set his teeth.
“In—much—pain?” he muttered.
“No.”
The car drove up beneath the porte-cochère of the Prices’ house, and the two men got out. They went upstairs together silently.
In Marian’s exquisite boudoir stood a black group of people. Stacey recognized none of them at first, only caught a feeling of their heavy incongruity in that place. Then he saw that Mr. Latimer was one and that another was a doctor whom he knew. There was a nurse also. From somewhere Mrs. Latimer appeared, and Stacey perceived that she was a haggard old woman. A look of relief softened her eyes a very little at sight of him.
“She wants to see you, Stacey,” Mrs. Latimer murmured. “I’ll speak to the doctor inside,” and she went through a door.