“But that is not Robert’s voice,” she faltered.
“Madam, a friend has brought your husband home.”
This assurance caused the door to be quickly opened.
“Good heavens! is he ill? Is he hurt? Bring him this way,” she excitedly directed.
The silken draperies of the bed were trembling, showing that she had just left their folds. After depositing the burden, the cab man bowed, and left them.
“It is not at all serious, my dear madam,” the friend began, “but the truth is—” here he hesitated confusedly, he did not mean to tell her the truth at all; anything else but that.
“Oh, sir, tell me the worst; what has happened?” and she leaned lovingly over the unconscious man; she looked so earnest in her grief—so unsuspecting—that Marrion was convinced that this was the first “full” of the honeymoon. “I will help him out of this,” he said to himself.
“Robert had a terrific headache at the club, and we gave him chloral—he took a trifle too much—that is all—he will be quite himself by morning.”
“Oh! sir, are you sure it is not fatal?” Cherokee asked, anxiously, “absolutely sure? But how could anyone be so careless,” she remonstrated.
“I do not wonder that you ask, since it was Marrion Latham who was so thoughtless.”