"Maurice, wait one minute. If I were you, I wouldn't get Eleanor to talking, to-night; she's a little feverish—"
"Mrs. Houghton!" he broke in, "Eleanor's all right, isn't she?" His face was furrowed with alarm. (If that wicked rhythm of the wheels should begin again!)
"Oh yes; I—I think so. She hasn't quite got over the shock yet, but—"
"What shock? Nobody's told me yet what it was! Your dispatch only said she'd slipped into the water. What water?"
"We don't really know," said Mrs. Houghton; "and she mustn't be worried with questions, the doctor says. You see, she got dripping wet, somehow, and then had a long trolley ride—and she had a cold to start with—"
"I'll just crawl upstairs, and see if she's awake," said Maurice. "I won't disturb her."
As he started softly upstairs, Mrs. Newbolt opened the dining-room door a crack, and peered in at Mary Houghton. "Did you tell him?" she said, in a wheezing whisper.
Mrs. Houghton shook her head.
"Well, I can tell you who won't tell him," said Eleanor's aunt; "me! To tell a man that his wife—"
"Hush-sh!" said Mrs. Houghton; "he's coming downstairs. Besides, we don't know that she did—"