“My God!” muttered Hugo Carr. But still his eyes were fixed on Smith, he could not look at Joan.
An analysis of suicide was not among Smith’s duties. He only added: “I have telephoned to Dr. Gay, madam, and as he was out playing bridge I asked Mrs. Gay to ring him up to come here, as it was very urgent.” Wise Smith! What could be more noncommittal than “very urgent” for suicide?
“My God!” muttered Hugo Carr—and jumped up and strode away to the fireplace. He had not yet looked at Joan.
But Smith looked at her, and she back at him. Smith was a nice man, and he respected his mistress immensely, her kind.
“I am very sorry indeed, madam,” said Smith.
Joan’s lips scarcely moved.
“Thank you, Smith.”
Smith went out softly.
“I never dreamt——” Hugo Carr burst out, then choked. It was as though he had swept his arm round to ward off an intolerable thing and had found the thing too intolerable.
Joan went to him.