Dolph sat down without reply. His wife came in and sat beside him, taking his hand in hers. In another quarter of an hour back came Uncle John, shivering with the chill of the corridor, and stood warming himself before the grate fire.
“If the major heard the baby,” he said reflectively, “it must be proof that—that something—has happened to the little dear, and—and we must face the worst.”
“Well, it was baby I heard,” asserted the major, who, having hastily donned his clothes, now made his reappearance in the library. “I was lying in a sort of dose when the cry first reached my ears. Then I sat up and listened, and heard it again distinctly, as if little Jane were only two feet away. Then—then—”
“Then you tested your lungs and made your escape,” added the doctor drily.
“I admit it, sir!” said Major Doyle, haughtily. “Had it been anyone else who encountered the experience—even a pill peddler—he would have fainted.”
In the blue room Patsy and Beth alone remained with Arthur Weldon. Not a sound broke the stillness. When an hour had passed, Patsy said:
“Won’t you go away, Arthur? Beth and I will watch.”
He shook his head.
“You can do no good by staying in this awful place,” pleaded the girl, speaking in a whisper.
“If she—if baby—should be heard again, I—I’d like to be here,” he said pathetically.