"Poor Margie!" he heard her say—then she turned to him with a strange, calm look in her eyes.
"You must go," she said with an effort; "it is late. Blakeman will be here in a moment to turn on the lights." She stretched forth her hands to him. For a second he held them warm and trembling in his own, then Blakeman's rapid step in the conservatory was heard.
"Good-night," he said in a louder tone, as the butler appeared. "I shall see you at the Van Renssalaer's Thursday—we are to dine at eight, I believe."
She smiled wearily in assent.
"And remember me to your good husband," he added. "I hope he will have the best of luck."
"They say hunting is a worse habit to break than bridge," she returned with a forced little laugh.
Blakeman followed the doctor to the door. Reverently he handed him his stick, coat and hat—a moment later the heavy steel grille closed noiselessly.
Blakeman stood grimly looking out of the front window, his jaw set, his eyes following the doctor until he disappeared within his coupe and slammed the door shut.
"Damn him!" he said. "If he tells that child that I'll strangle him!"