"Well, good people, I must go," he announced cheerily. (For the last half-hour the doctor had been wondering just how soon he might make that statement.) "It's half-past nine."
"Pshaw! That ain't late," protested Helen.
"No, indeed," echoed Burke—though Burke had promptly risen with his guest.
"Perhaps not, to you; but to me—" The doctor let a smile finish his sentence.
"But you're coming again," gurgled Helen. "You're coming to dinner. Burke said you was."
Burke's mouth flew open—but just in time he snapped it shut. He had remembered that hospitable husbands do not usually retract their wives' invitations with a terrified "For Heaven's sake, no!"—at least, not in the face of the prospective guest. Before he could put the new, proper words into his mouth, the doctor spoke.
"Thank you. You're very kind; but I'm afraid not—this time, Mrs. Denby. My stay is to be very short. But I'm glad to have had this little visit," he finished, holding out his hand.
And again Burke, neither then, nor when he looked straight into the doctor's eyes a moment later, could find aught in word or manner upon which to pin his watchful suspicions.
The next moment the doctor was gone.
Helen yawned luxuriously, openly— Helen never troubled to hide her yawns.