"Yes. She's dying. She sent for him. Such dreadful roads too."
Courtney's pen halted on its way to the ink well. The room seemed to her to have become terribly still.
"She sent him word," Lizzie went carelessly on, and her voice seemed to come from a distance, through a profound hush, "that she had something on her conscience and couldn't go without clearing it. I reckon she's gone clean crazy."
It was not fear that made nerve and muscle tense. It was not self-control that held her motionless. The peril was upon her; there was no time to waste in emotion. All along, she had pretended to herself that Nanny knew nothing, had at worst a dim suspicion. Now, she realized that she had always feared the old woman had seen and had heard. And those words of Lizzie's made it impossible for her to doubt what was about to occur. No time for terror, for hysteria or fainting or futile moaning. Her whole being concentrated on the one idea, What shall I do? Calmly she said to Lizzie, "Has he gone?"
"Ten minutes ago—maybe fifteen."
"Did he take the motor?"
"Yes, ma'am. She's near dead. He went in a great hurry."
Idle then to think of overtaking him, of bringing him back with a story that Winchie was missing, was perhaps drowned in the lake. Her mind—it had never been clearer or steadier—gave Richard up for the moment, turned to another phase. "Where is Mr. Gallatin?" she asked.
"Out on the lake. Winchie's with him—fishing."
"When they come in, please tell him I wish to see him at once." The events of last night were as if they had not been. Wounds closed up like magic; once more it was she and Basil her lover united against the whole world.