As Mrs. Meredith and Anne crossed the reception hall on their way to the library they encountered Mrs. Hull just coming out of the dining room. She had never taken kindly to having breakfast served in her bedroom and, with Sam Hollister for company, had just completed that meal.
“Where away so early in the morning, Belle?” she asked, as her cousin paused to greet her. “I don’t recall having seen you up and dressed at this hour since our acquaintance.”
“You would not see me now but for an impertinent message from Coroner Penfield,” answered Mrs. Meredith tartly. “He and Inspector Mitchell are waiting in the library to interview Anne—”
Anne shivered involuntarily. All the way along the upper corridor and down the staircase she had longed for a word of sympathy, of encouragement, of understanding from her mother. If she could only feel that she was not utterly alone, the coming interview would lose half its terrors! Just a word, just a glance, a loving touch. She laid her hand on her mother’s arm, only to have it withdrawn as Mrs. Meredith moved to one side. She had been rebuffed.
Mrs. Hull saw the incident and divined its significance as she met Anne’s tragic eyes. Hot resentment conquered every other feeling. She slipped her arm about the young girl’s waist and held her closely to her.
“I’ve always wanted to know a coroner,” she stated calmly, meeting Mrs. Meredith’s displeased frown with unruffled composure. “I guess I’ll go in with you and Anne. Come, dearie,” and she supplemented her remarks with a kiss, which Anne returned with fervor, unconscious that her cheek was wet with a tear.
“Damason”—Anne had caught sight of the chauffeur as he came into the reception hall from the pantry—“ask Doctor Curtis to come at once to the library. Suppose we go on, mother, and not keep Coroner Penfield waiting any longer,” and with Mrs. Hull’s motherly arm still about her, Anne followed Mrs. Meredith into the presence of the two men.
Anne’s clear voice reached David Curtis as he paused in the act of closing the front door, a grinning Western Union messenger boy waiting on the veranda, cap in hand, for the generous tip which he saw in the blind surgeon’s fingers. The next second he had darted down the steps, a silver dollar reposing in his pocket, while Curtis turned toward the library. He had taken but a few steps in that direction when Sam Hollister’s voice brought him to a halt.
“Hello, Curtis!” he said, both manner and voice subdued. “This is frightful about Colonel Hull—a bad smash.”
“Has his wife been told?”