THADDEUS WESTCOTT rubbed his forehead uneasily. The motion of the limousine seemed to disturb him. He reached for the speaking tube that communicated with the chauffeur.
“Drive more slowly, Craig,” he said.
It was the second time that he had given the order. The speed of the car dwindled to a snail’s pace. Westcott leaned back in the cushions of the seat.
“Not feeling so well?” questioned George Clarendon.
“No,” replied Westcott. “I’m a bit dizzy, George. Perhaps it was a cup of coffee that I drank after dinner. It tasted a bit unusual. I seem to be feeling worse every minute.”
“It would be absurd for you to go out to Long Island,” declared Clarendon. “Why don’t you stop at the Thermon Hotel overnight? Doctor Geoffrey is house physician there. I’ll tell him to take care of you.”
“I am leaving for the South to-morrow,” objected Westcott. “All my bags are packed. Out at the house—”
“That’s fine,” said Clarendon. “The chauffeur can bring them in to-morrow morning, before train time.”
Westcott closed his eyes and nodded weakly.
“I guess you’re right, George,” he said. “I’m — I’m — not feeling well. You do whatever is — best.”