The door closed after him, and Aunt Hannah began to pace the drawing-room, full of forebodings.
“I am sure there is something very wrong,” she said, “or Vane would not have behaved like this.”
She broke down here, and had what she called “a good cry.” But it did not seem to relieve her, and she recommenced her walking once more.
At every sound she made for the door, believing it was Vane come back, and, truth to tell, thinking very little of the doctor, but every time she hurried to the door and window she was fain to confess it was fancy, and resumed her weary agitated walk up and down the room.
At last, though, there was the click of the swing-gate, and she hurried to the porch where she was standing as the doctor came up.
“Yes, dear,” she cried, before he reached the door. “Has he had his tea?”
The doctor was silent, and came into the hall where Aunt Hannah caught his arm.
“There is something wrong?” she cried.
“No, no, don’t be agitated, my dear,” said the doctor gently. “It may be nothing.”
“Then he is there—hurt?”