They reached the sitting room and entered it. There was no one there. Simpson was apparently in the Senator's bedroom. Merriam dropped into a chair and closed his eyes again. Rockwell walked across to a window and stood staring out. Dr. Hobart stopped uncertainly in the middle of the room and fiddled with a cigarette without being able to make up his mind to light it. For several moments none of them spoke.
But Rockwell was not the man to remain long in any apathy of inaction. He turned suddenly, and Merriam, whom the prolonged unnatural silence had caused to open his eyes, saw that he had made up his mind to something.
"Hobart," he said, "I suppose Simpson isn't practically necessary in there." He indicated the sick room.
"N-no," said Dr. Hobart, "I suppose not. He's just watching. Norman will sleep soundly for some time."
"Then ask him to come here, will you?"
The physician disappeared into the bedroom and in a moment returned with Simpson.
"Simpson," said Rockwell, "we're going to have a meal here, for nine people. A luncheon, if you like. But make it hearty. Choose the stuff yourself, and serve it as quickly as you can, please."
For a moment Simpson stared. Then, as if remembering a nearly forgotten cue, he replied submissively, "Yes, sir," and turned to the door.
As that door closed behind Simpson, Merriam suddenly stood up.
"I must send a telegram to Riceville," he said, starting for the writing table for a blank.