“Dear Mr. Holland: I wonder if you would come to Stone Cottage to see me? I promise you rather a sensational ‘story’, though I realize that it will lose much of its importance because I will not have my name mentioned in connection.”
Tab would have liked to have gone then and there. He was up the next morning at six, and chafed because he could not in decency arrive at the house much before lunch.
It was a glorious June day, warm, with a gentle westerly wind, such a day as every doctor with a convalescent patient in his charge, hails with joy and thankfulness.
She was reclining where he had seen her on his first visit to Hertford, but this time she did not rise, but held out a thin, white hand, which he took with such exaggerated care that she laughed. She was paler, thinner of face, older looking in some indefinite way.
“You won’t break it,” she said. “Sit down, Mr. Tab.”
“I like Mr. Tab very much better than I like Mr. Holland,” said Tab. “It is glorious here. Why do we swelter in the towns?”
“Because the towns pay us our salaries,” she said drily. “Mr. Holland, will you do something for me?”
He longed to tell her that if she asked him to stand on his head, or lie down whilst she wiped her feet upon him, she would be gladly obeyed. Instead:
“Why, of course,” he said.
“Will you sell some jewels for me? They are those which were found—in poor Mr. Trasmere’s vault.”