“Don’t go off the deep end, Hatter. The man’s probably dead and buried. It’s worth investigating, though. And look here, Hatter, keep Grey off Gregg, will you? We don’t want this thing muddled and if Grey’s clumsy he’ll do more harm than good. Tell him I’ll make the doctor my business, that is . . .”
He broke off and the lines on his face deepened. Fayre knew that his mind was back in the quiet, shaded room upstairs and that the words “if all goes well” had trembled on his lips and he had been afraid to utter them.
“I’ll see to that, old chap,” he broke in hastily, “and I’ll put the Baxter theory to him at once.”
Kean sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He looked mortally tired and Fayre forbore to disturb him. For a time they sat in silence; then Kean shook himself out of his abstraction.
“As regards the Page business,” he began thoughtfully, “I doubt …”
There was a sound in the hall and in a moment he was on his feet, everything but his wife forgotten. They heard the front door close, followed by the sound of subdued voices.
“It’s the doctor. Wait here, old man, will you?” Kean flung the words over his shoulder as he left the room, and for the next half-hour or so Fayre, alone in the big shadowy library, gave himself up shamelessly to the depression which had haunted him all day.
He waited till the departure of the doctor and the return of Kean with the news that his wife was, if anything, a little stronger and then walked back through the quiet, lamplit streets to his club.
Chapter XVIII
Before going out the next morning Fayre rang up Kean’s house and ascertained that Sybil Kean had passed a good night and was appreciably stronger. The doctors were still unable to pronounce her definitely out of danger and had warned Kean that, at any moment, there might be a relapse, but Fayre was conscious of an immense relief as he set out for Grey’s office in Chancery Lane.