Doctor Lukens entered.
He was a man with bushy gray hair, and keen, quick-moving eyes. He was more alert than Marchand, yet he bore an appearance that placed him at approximately the same age as the master of the house.
Marchand did not rise to greet Lukens; but the physician approached with eagerness. It was obvious that he was a life-long friend of Marchand.
“Henry!” exclaimed Lukens.
He grasped Marchand’s hand; then his gleam of friendship changed to a professional expression of concern.
“You are in good hearth?” asked Lukens.
“Passably,” replied Marchand, with a sour smile. “I had a long trip to-day. That weak heart you have warned about is none too good. I wired you to come here, in case I might need you.
“You might remain a little while; but I doubt that I shall require any medical treatment.”
The old man raised himself from his chair and walked to the door with his limping step. He rested on the cane when he reached the hallway.
“I am going upstairs,” he announced. “I shall be in my room for a short while. You may all wait here until I return.”