She was sitting at work again early on Monday morning, in the drawing-room that overlooked the street.
About ten o'clock she heard a cab drive up to the door.
She thought it was Majendie come back again, and she was surprised when Kate came to her and told her that it was Mr. Hannay, and that he wished to speak to her at once.
Hannay was downstairs, in the study; standing with his back to the fireplace. He did not come forward to meet her. His rosy, sensual face was curiously set. As she approached him, his loose lips moved and closed again in a firm fold.
He pressed her hand without speaking. His heaviness and immobility alarmed her.
"What is it?" she asked.
Her heart was like a wild whirlpool that sucked back her voice and suffocated it.
"I've come with very bad news, Mrs. Majendie."
"Tell me," she whispered.
"Walter is ill—very dangerously ill."