“Oh quite, quite. Never better in her life, the sweet lady. Quite so. But—er—Mr.—er—Mills. Yes; Mills. Mr. Mills....”
“Who is Mr. Mills?” Mrs. Witherby almost screamed the question, in her unendurable exasperation.
“Oh, Mr. Mills is—er—well, I fear I can’t tell you who he is, because I don’t know. But his name is Mills—with two l’s. Perhaps you know him? He was travelling along the road, and a constable, mistaking him for a tramp, shot at him—er—just outside Mrs. Mearely’s house. She, with great courage, ran out to see what had happened—er—had the wounded gentleman brought in here and telephoned at once for me.”
Mrs. Witherby, so far from being relieved, was indignant.
“But Mrs. Wells said,” she began accusingly....
“Yes, yes, I know. Dyspepsia. So we thought—until I arrived. But I must hasten. I left Mrs. Wells feeling quite an invalid. Heartburn. Fortunately, we have a perfect cure for it. Our cousin, Dr. Mayhew Pipp’s, remedy. You know, the poor fellow discovered an infallible cure a few years before he died of the disease. Very sad. No doubt he would have been knighted, had he lived. We feel very secure as long as we have cousin Mayhew Pipp’s May-Piplets.”
He swallowed a small pink pellet from a phial, snapped his bag to, and hurried out, saying “good-night” over his shoulder.
The three, looking blankly at one another, heard the trap drive away. Mrs. Witherby dropped into the big chair.
“Well! of all things!” she said. “What time is it?”
“I’m so relieved and happy I could shout!” Corinne exclaimed, laughing and crying a little at the same time.