He turned and strode from the room, and so upstairs.
There in his own room, he strove desperately to get himself in hand. The touch of cold water on his skin cooled his blood, but only made him more aware of the awful chaos into which he was plunged. Who was responsible for this attitude on the part of Dorothy? What had caused it?
He changed his clothes, his brain in tumult. Dorothy seemed to know as much as he did about this indictment. He was frightened, too; in her condition she was receptive to delusion, obsession, madness! This thought made him frantic in his very solicitude for her, and lessened his resentment of her words and manner. It was not his wife who had been speaking downstairs—it was the woman who carried a child under her heart, the woman whose entire physical and nervous system was for the moment thrown out of balance.
He was longer than usual about dressing, but at length descended the stairs. At their foot, he encountered the maid, and thought that she regarded him with a singular air. He halted her curtly.
"Who was here yesterday or the day before?"
"Nobody, sir, but a Mr. Slosson, I think the name was—yesterday morning early."
"Slosson!" The name broke from Armstrong. He clenched his lips for an instant, and flung an appearance of calm into his reply. "Very well. You may serve luncheon whenever it's ready."
"It's ready now, sir." The maid's face was frightened. "If—if Mrs. Armstrong is coming back—"
"Coming back?" Armstrong looked at the maid with terrible eyes. "What do you mean?"
"She called the car and went out, just after you went upstairs, sir. And—and she had her traveling-bag—"