“Halloa,” she called faintly.
“Is this Theodore King’s home?” shouted a voice.
“Yes.”
“Mr. King’s had an accident. He’s in the hospital. Break the news carefully to his mother, please.”
Dazedly, Molly slipped the receiver back to its hook. She stumbled to the porch and down the steps, her face ashen with anguish.
“You shot Theo, Jordan,” she cried hysterically.
“Shut your head,” growled Morse, glancing furtively about. “Don’t talk so loud.... Now then, listen! There’ll be hell to pay for this. But Bates won’t peach, and I’m sure I clipped the cobbler’s wings. Keep quiet till you hear from me.”
He sprang again into the machine and was gone before the woman could gather her wits together.
She turned and went slowly up the steps. It was her duty to break the news to Theodore’s mother—she who knew so much, but dared to tell so little! How to open the conversation with the gentle sufferer she knew not. 242
Mrs. King smiled a greeting as she entered, but at the sight of Molly’s face, her book dropped to the floor.