“Yes,—” said Alfred, impatiently, after a long pause,—“Yes, this is Mr. Carstairs' home.... I am his son.... What?... Yes, he's here, but can't you give me the message?... Who are you?... What?... Certainly I'll call him, but... Here, father; it's some one who insists on speaking to you personally.”
He set the receiver down on the table with a sharp bang, and straightened up to his full height as if resenting an indignity.
Carstairs took up the receiver. He realized that his hand trembled. He had never known it to happen before, even in moments of great stress.
“Yes, this is Davenport Carstairs. Who are you, please?” He started slightly at the crisp, business-like reply. “Bellevue Hospital? Police surgeon—What? Just a moment, please. Now, go ahead.” He had seated himself in the great library chair at the end of the table. “Yes; my butler's name is Hodges.... An Englishman.... What?... What has happened, officer?... Good God!... I—Why, certainly, I shall come down at once if necessary. I—can identify him, of course.... Yes, tomorrow morning will suit me better.... Hold the wire a moment, please.”
He turned to the listeners. “Hodges has been injured by an automobile,” he said quietly. “I gather he is unconscious. You are nervous and upset, Frieda, so you'd better retire. Leave this to—”
“Is he dead, Davenport?” she asked in a low horror-struck voice.
“Run along, Louise,—skip off to bed. I'll get the details and tell you in the morning.” The girl swayed slightly. Her eyes were wide with anguish.