"Can you stay to see that Letty goes to bed?" Catherine turned to her endless task. "I haven't called all the hospitals yet."
His gray eyes, long, with the wide space between, and the small, fine nose; fair boy's brows; mobile, eager lips. If I had been here, she thought, as she waited for the curt official voice to answer,—Has a little boy been brought in? If I had been here—oh, if—if——
Finally she sat, staring at the ridiculous gaping mouthpiece. Where would they take him, if he were—dead. Wasn't there a morgue? The word twisted and plunged in her, a slimy thing. She would call the morgue. She heard Miss Kelly's firm voice, "No, you mustn't bother your mother, not now. Come and have your supper, Marian."
He couldn't be dead. That warm, hard, slender body—how absurd! Morbid. He was somewhere, just around the corner. Death, that's the queer thing. Who had said that? Henrietta. She would call her—and ask her.
Before she had given the number, the front door clattered, opened. Catherine pushed herself erect; she was stiff, rigid. She found herself in the hall. Charles, glowering, and in front of him, propelled by his father's hand on his shoulder, Spencer! She couldn't move, or speak.
"Well, here's the fine young man," said Charles.
Spencer wriggled under his hand. His eyes smoldered with resentment, and his mouth was sullen.
Catherine's hands yearned toward him. She mustn't frighten him, but just to touch him, to feel him!
"A great note!" Charles came down the hall, righteous anger on his face. "I called up the police and had them send out their signals."