"Miss Morton to see you, sir."
There seemed a thousand "r's" in both the Morton and the sir, and Anthony, who felt that there was something ominous and arresting in Hannah's voice, was wide-awake before she could shut the door again.
Sure enough it was Meg, clad in a long grey dust-cloak and motor bonnet, the grey veil flung back from a very pale face.
Meg, looking a wispy little shadow of woe.
Anthony came forward with outstretched hands.
"Meg, my child, what good wind has blown you here this afternoon? I thought you were having ever such a gay time down in the country."
But Meg made no effort to grasp the greeting hands. On the contrary, she moved so that the whole width of the dining-room table was between them.
"Wait," she said, "you mustn't shake hands with me till I tell you what I've done ... perhaps you won't want to then."
And Anthony saw that she was trembling.
"Come and sit down," he said. "Something's wrong, I can see. What is it?"