‘That’s the stuff,’ said Prenderby with enthusiasm. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll drop down on you afterwards to hear how things have progressed. Hullo!’
He paused, listening. ‘There’s someone coming down the passage now,’ he said. ‘Look here, if it’s all the same to you I’ll continue the melodrama and get into that press.’
He slipped into the big wardrobe at the far end of the room and closed the carved door behind him just as the footsteps paused in the passage outside and someone knocked.
On opening the door, Abbershaw found, as he had expected, Dr Whitby on the threshold. The man was in a pitiable state of nerves. His thin grey hair was damp and limp upon his forehead, and his hands twitched visibly.
‘Dr Abbershaw,’ he began, ‘I am sorry to trouble you so late at night, but I wonder if you would do something for us.’
‘My dear sir, of course.’ Abbershaw radiated good humour, and the other man warmed immediately.
‘I think you know,’ he said, ‘I am Colonel Coombe’s private physician. He has been an invalid for some years, as I dare say you are aware. In point of fact, a most unfortunate thing has happened, which although we have known for some time that it must come soon, is none the less a great shock. Colonel Coombe’s seizure this evening has proved fatal.’
Abbershaw’s expression was a masterpiece: his eyebrows rose, his mouth opened.
‘Dear, dear! How very distressing!’ he said with that touch of pomposity which makes a young man look more foolish than anything else. ‘Very distressing,’ he repeated, as if another thought had suddenly struck him. ‘It’ll break up the party, of course.’
Dr Whitby hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we had hoped not.’