There was an infinity of news to tell, experiences and impressions must be recorded, progress reported. The eager sparkling talk of the two women was delightful to the doctor, and he was especially pleased with the conversation of Mrs. Daly. Every word she spoke fell with the right ring and chimed, he seemed to have known her for years—as indeed he had done, through the medium of her letters.
Conversation, which with people like these is a sort of music, resembles the progress of harmonics in this also—that a lull arrives with mathematical incidence when a certain stage is reached in the progress of a theme.
It happened so now, at a certain stage of dinner. There was much more to be said, but all three people had reached a momentary pause.
The butler came into the room just then, with a letter. "This has just come by messenger from North London Prison, sir," he said, unable to repress a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
With a gesture of apology, the doctor opened the envelope. "Very well," he said, in a moment or two. "I need not write an answer. But go to the library, Proctor, and ring up the North London Prison. Say Doctor Morton Sims' thanks and he will be there punctually at half past eight."
The servant withdrew and both the ladies looked inquiringly at the doctor.
"It is a dreadful thing," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "but I may as well tell you. It must go no further though. A wretched man is to be executed to-morrow and I have to go and see him."
Edith shuddered.
"How frightful," she said, growing rather pale; "but why, John? How does it concern you? Are you forced to go?"
He nodded. "I must go," he said, "though it is the most painful thing I have ever had to do. It is Hancock, the Hackney murderer."