Then Dr. Thorne stepped out of the library. "Wait a minute, Avery," he said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, which at once restored Avery's composure. "Just come in here before you go up, will you?"
Marshall Avery obeyed. He stepped into the library. And Dr. Thorne shut the door.
The two men regarded each other for a moment in surcharged silence. The distracted husband stood trembling pitiably. He passed his left hand over his eyes, then pushed it over his right wrist several times, as if he were pushing away an obstruction.
"I don't seem to be quite right in the head, Thorne," he pleaded. "I thought there was—something on the doorbell.... I 've been shipwrecked. I 'm not—just myself.... Why don't you speak to me? Doctor! Doctor!"
"I find it—difficult," replied the experienced physician, with embarrassment. "The case is—unusual. Mrs. Avery"—
"Give me the worst!" cried the tortured man.
"That is impossible," said Esmerald Thorne, in a deep voice. He turned away and went to the window, where he stood looking out into the back yard. Kate was hanging out some sheets and other bedding. Avery noticed this circumstance—he had got up and stood behind the doctor—as people notice the pettiest items in the largest crises of their lives. A small fluttering white thing on the line arrested his attention. It was the silk Spanish shawl which he had given his wife.
He put out his hand—groped, as a seeing man suddenly smitten blind will grope—and, fumbling, found the doctor's arm and clutched it. Then he toppled; his weight came heavily, and the physician caught him before he struck the floor.
He pushed the brandy away from his lips and struggled up. Even at that moment it occurred to him that Esmerald Thorne looked at him with something like aversion.
"When did she die?"