And while these secret thoughts were rushing through his brain Agatha Cheale was standing motionless, a look of stark terror on her bloodless face.
“Go into your room,” he said at last, “and try and get a little rest.”
Together they left the room of death, and the doctor quickly made his way downstairs through the still, silent house.
Rather unreasonably, it gave Dr. Maclean somewhat of a shock to find Harry Garlett comfortably stretched out in an easy chair, reading a novel. But as the doctor advanced into the room the master of the Thatched House leaped to his feet.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “I hope you’ve made her more comfortable, Maclean? I’m sorry to have dragged you out like this, but Miss Cheale was so very much upset and worried——”
Then something in the gravity of the doctor’s face pulled the speaker up short. He added quickly: “Isn’t she so well? Would you like me to get Tasker?”
Dr. Maclean took a step forward; he put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder:
“Garlett, I’ve a sad thing to break to you, man——”
He waited a moment, then said quietly: “Your poor wife is dead—an obvious case of heart failure following an attack of acute indigestion.”
“Dead?”