“I see,” Penfield paused, then looked up. “All right, Mr. Hollister, if you will get that paper for me, I’ll be much obliged.” As Hollister disappeared through the doorway, he turned to Mitchell. “Inspector, will you look up Miss Hull and Mr. Armstrong and tell them that I wish to see them within the next half hour.”
“Do you wish to see them together?” questioned Mitchell, stopping halfway to the door.
“No, one at a time,” and Mitchell hurried away as Fernando, the Filipino, upon the point of entering, stepped back to allow him to pass from the room.
“If you please, sir,” said the latter, reappearing and bowing low to McLane. “Doctor Pen is wanted on the telephone.”
McLane, knowing Fernando’s habit of clipping names, smiled. “It’s you he wants, Penfield,” he explained, and as the coroner went out of the bedroom, followed by Fernando, he closed the hall door and turned to Curtis.
“The years drop away, Dave,” he drew up a chair as he spoke. “It seems only yesterday that we were together in Montreal.”
“‘But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
Sin auld lang syne,’”
quoted Curtis, and his voice held a depth of pathos which touched McLane. “I’ve heard with delight, Leonard, of your success and of your happy marriage.”
“My wife is—well,” McLane laughed, a trifle embarrassed. “You must meet her and then you’ll know for yourself how dear she is. Why haven’t you let me know you were in Washington, Dave?”