“It’s Mrs. Rogers,” he cried. “Quick, some whiskey. She’s fainted.”
Alice poured out some of the spirits from the decanter on the table and gave it to him. “What can have happened?” she gasped, looking about. “Where is Donald?”
“He must be inside. He was here only a moment ago.” Mrs. Pope took one frightened look at her daughter’s white face, then rushed into the hall, calling loudly for her son-in-law.
They carried the unconscious woman into the house and placed her upon a big lounge in the hallway. Mrs. Pope was still waking the echoes of the place with her cries.
In a few moments Edith opened her eyes and looked about. “Donald,” she gasped, “come back—come back.”
“Where has he gone, Edith?” her mother demanded sharply. “I left you together.”
Mrs. Rogers continued to gaze, frightened, at the others as they crowded about her. She dared not speak—dared not tell them the truth of what had happened. “We—we had a quarrel,” she moaned. “Let me go to my room.” She struggled to her feet.
“But—my child—what is the matter? What has Donald said or done to you? Why has he left you like this? He never did have any consideration for you, but this is unpardonable. Where is he?” She glared about, eager to pour out the vials of her wrath upon her son-in-law’s head.
Edith staggered up, and made for the stairway. “He’s—he’s gone to New York. He took Bobbie with him—We had a frightful quarrel—Oh—I can’t tell you any more.” Sobbing loudly, she ran up the stairs.