“I forgot to call on the Montagues—and poor dear Mr. Montague has such dreadful gout. How could I be so heartless as to forget the Montagues? Such perfectly dreadful gout. Oh, well, one never knows—one never knows. Good-night, everybody. I am sure you won’t mind my rushing off like this”—both Bransby and Caroline looked resigned—“but I am so worried. Good-night—good-night.” She paused in the door, “Don’t forget, Dr. Latham, to-morrow at half-past one sharp.” She threw him a sweet, imperative look, and was gone—as she had come—in a silken whirl and a jangle of jewels and chains.
CHAPTER XIII
Richard Bransby looked after her sourly.
“Humph,” he said. “What a foolish woman.”
“Yes, silly,” Stephen agreed.
“So foolish she dares to believe—in things,” Horace Latham said slowly.
They all looked at him in amazement. “Latham!” Bransby exclaimed.
The physician turned and met his gaze. “Yes?”
“You don’t mean to tell me that you believe in all this hopeless drivel of ‘mediums’ and ‘control’ and spirit communications.”
“I don’t know,” Latham said musingly.