“You mean”—Thorne advanced nearer—“that you do not require my professional services for your son?”
“Yes, doctor.” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shifted to the hat stand where Thorne’s hat and overcoat and medicine bag were lying. “It was good of you to come so promptly, but since I telephoned you my son’s regular physician has arrived, and so—”
Thorne took a step toward the hat stand, then paused. “May I ask you to give a message to Dr. Washburn—”
“Dr. Washburn is not here,” interjected Mrs. Porter hastily. “I refer to Dr. Alan Noyes, who has just returned.” She had a carrying voice and her words reached other ears than her companions’, for as she ceased speaking, Detective Mitchell emerged from the back hall, an eager light in his eyes.
“You say Dr. Noyes is here,” he exclaimed, ignoring manners in his interest. “Then I must see him at once.”
“I fail to see why,” retorted Mrs. Porter, whose violent start at sight of the detective was not lost on Thorne. “Dr. Noyes is here to attend my son, and his presence is required in the sick room.”
“I must have a word with him. I will not detain him long.” Mitchell’s insistence was not to be denied. “Where is Dr. Noyes?”
Mrs. Porter stiffened, but her angry retort I was checked by a voice behind her.
“I am here,” announced Noyes, looking out on the group from between the drawing-room portières. “Who wants me?”
“I do, Detective Mitchell of the Central Office.” Mitchell scanned the surgeon’s face with close attention. “We can’t talk here,” glancing disapprovingly about the large square hall.