They could not remain another hour in Mr. Werner's house, that was certain. She could not take her husband back to Homewood, that seemed more impossible still. She doubted, though her experience was small, whether any hotel-keeper would beam with smiles at sight of a sick man accompanied by his wife and destitute of luggage.
Dolly sat down on the mat outside the bedroom door to think it all over.
They must go somewhere, and at once, where should it be?
She sat there plucking the wool out of the mat in her restless imaginings, while her head grew hot and her eyes heavy with weary self-communing; she heard Mr. and Mrs. Werner go down stairs; she heard the stir and bustle of arriving guests; she listened to the buzz of talking and the light rippling of laughter, as one drifting out to sea in a rudderless boat might listen to the voices and the merriment of those safe on a shore fading away in the distance; she heard the rustle of the ladies' dresses as they passed in to dinner, and then it came to her like an inspiration—where she should go.
"I will do it. I will," she said almost audibly, and she turned the handle of the door gently, and crossing the room caught up her hat and shawl, and then closing the door behind her, went carefully down stairs, surveying the country she had to pass through over the bannisters.
Strange waiters were about and she passed through them unobserved, and sped off to the nearest cab-stand.
There she hired a vehicle, which she left waiting her return some half-dozen yards from Mr. Werner's house.
The door was fortunately open to admit of some guests invited to "come in the evening," and she entered with them and, unnoticed save by Mr. Werner's butler, crossed the hall and ran up stairs.
Arrived at her husband's side she touched him gently.