“Had what?” Dorothy looked at him in honest amazement.
“Ante-bellum cartridges,” he repeated. “The same as Dr. Noyes gave you, Miss Dorothy, when you came down with cold and fever in Christmas week.”
“Oh!” Dorothy’s piquant face dimpled into a smile, hastily suppressed; discretion prevailed in spite of her love of fun. It was wiser not to tell Murray that he should have said “antifebrin capsules”; she was there to wheedle, not to instruct. “Oh, Murray, I do hope you haven’t grippe—it’s so contagious.”
“Yes, miss.” But Murray did not look downcast at the idea. “We’d be a whole hospital then, a regular hospital.” His face lengthened. “But we’ve no doctor in the house, now Dr. Noyes has gone.”
“Oh, well, there’s one in the neighborhood; in fact, just across the fields—Dr. Thorne.”
Murray shook his head dubiously. “I’m thinking I wouldn’t like him,” he said thoughtfully. “They say he’s over-hasty at cutting people up.”
Dorothy laughed, then became serious. “I believe he has made a specialty of surgery.” She turned as if to go. “By the way, Murray, did Mr. Wyndham mention when he would be back?”
“No, miss, he didn’t.” Murray, turning about to replace a dish on the shelf, smiled discreetly. “I’m thinking, miss, that Mr. Hugh intended to tell Mrs. Porter when he would be back when that ’tec, Mr. Mitchell, stepped out of the door I was holding open for Mrs. Porter, and Mr. Hugh called to her to expect him when she saw him, and the car started off with a rush. He was here this morning.”
“Who—Mr. Hugh?” Dorothy turned like a flash.
“No, no, miss, the ’tec, Mitchell. I hear tell as how he’s the man in charge here; tall, light-haired, looks as if he didn’t belong anywhere, ’cause he’s so busy concealing he’s looking everywhere.”