"Mrs. Hammond! I am delighted to see you."
Dr. Roberts bustled toward her, his bearded face cordial, his gestures animated, fidgety. "I wondered how soon you would be in. I should have called you soon. Your little boy has recovered?"
"Yes." Catherine sat down.
"Such a pity. Poor little chap. And calling you back. I must tell you how admirable your investigation is. We've had several letters from people whom you met. You handled them admirably, interested them without antagonizing them. Well, you are ready now to finish the tour?"
"You have sent no one else?" Catherine was cold. That jellyfish in her head was a flabby lump left by the tide.
"No. I want you to go back." His eyes, small, keen, searched hers.
She sighed faintly.
"I can't do it." She was startled at the finality in her own words. "I can't go away, Dr. Roberts. Not—again."
He showed no surprise.
"Your letters," he suggested. "They sounded enthusiastic."