“Is it important?” inquired the older woman.
“I—this afternoon will do as well, I suppose,” replied the girl, without turning her head.
“Let me call up for you, dear. It is no trouble at all. I can explain that you are ill.”
“No, thank you, Aunt Frieda. It—it doesn't matter.”
She hesitated about confiding to Mrs. Carstairs that she was going out to meet her lover. Something told her that it would be the wrong thing to do,—something that for want of another name would have to go as cunning. She shared a vague, disturbing secret with Steele....
Mrs. Carstairs tucked the bedclothes about her.
“The doctor will be here soon, I am sure,” she said. “Do you feel any better? Are you more comfortable?”
“I am in no pain,—if that's what you mean. Just this wretched nausea. What do the morning papers say about the loss of the Elston, Aunt Frieda?”
“Nothing, I believe. Your uncle says there was no mention of it. I daresay the news has been held up for the time being. Waiting for full details. Wasn't it fortunate,—wasn't it providential that the transfer to the Campion was so cleverly accomplished?”
A maid-servant came to the door.