“Anne!”
“Stop, mother; I will be heard,” as Mrs. Meredith raised her hand with an imperative gesture. “Doctor Curtis afforded us the means to gratify that mysterious mandate which Uncle John insisted upon by agreeing to marry me, and by that marriage, in name only, I will inherit a large fortune.”
“Your uncle’s death alters that—”
“Does it?” For the first time Anne did not meet her mother’s eyes. “Doctor Curtis has proved himself a gentleman and a man of honor in his treatment of me. Yesterday, when I was heckled by Coroner Penfield, he came to my assistance. I,” raising her head proudly, “I will not be a party to any act, overt or concealed, which endeavors to pry into his past.”
The door banged shut as Anne, springing to her feet, fled through it. Pressing her hands against her hot cheeks, she leaned panting against the wall of the boudoir to recover her self-possession before going to Lucille’s bedroom.
Downstairs in the library Sam Hollister rubbed his bald head with a large silk handkerchief and gratefully accepted Herman’s suggestion of a cocktail from what had once been John Meredith’s private stock.
“Bring three,” he added. “I am sure Mr. Armstrong will join me, and Doctor Curtis will be here presently.” As the butler disappeared, he turned to Gerald Armstrong. “A cocktail,” he remarked dryly, “may make you a more agreeable companion.” Armstrong transferred his gaze from his carefully creased trousers to Hollister’s flushed countenance.
“Why so heated?” he asked. “Sit down and take things calmly.”
The look that the lawyer cast at his younger companion was anything but complimentary. “Calmly?” he fumed. “Where is that ass, Hull?”
“Do you mean Colonel Julian Hull?” Armstrong made no attempt to conceal his amusement. “My revered senior partner is, I believe,” glancing at his wrist watch, “in our office watching the stock market.”