"Anything else?"
"Well, you might call up The World and tell them that I won't be down to-morrow. You might add that I fell down on the Wynrod story ... that I'm in the camps of the Persians."
Then, when Roger looked puzzled, he yawned luxuriously and stretched his arms over his head. And after another yawn, he closed his eyes.
"That's all, thanks. Tell 'em not to wake me—for a week...."
CHAPTER II
A BLOW—AND A RESOLUTION
I
It was after ten o'clock on the evening of the same day. Judith was thankful when a change at one of the tables gave her an opportunity to steal away. It was the same old routine, the same interminable bridge, the same familiar group, even including Faxon and Della Baker who, by a coincidence that had called forth little veiled ironies, had returned by the same late afternoon train. Judith wondered at herself. The life she led, the people she called her friends, had never seemed quite so shallow before. She stole upstairs and listened for a moment at the door of her patient's room. All was quite soundless. Returning to the floor below, she stepped out into the grateful coolness of the evening, seeking that part of the piazza at the opposite end of the house from the parlours. Pausing outside the smoking-room, she heard voices and the tinkle of ice. She looked through the glass door; there were two men in the room, Della Baker's husband and Faxon. The latter was stirring his high-ball thoughtfully. His words arrested her as she was on the point of turning back.