She barely glanced at the names before tossing the cards aside. “I am thankful you did, Murray; make my excuses to callers for the next week. I can see no one.”
“Very good, miss.” But Murray lingered, a troubled look in his eyes. “The ’tec, Mitchell, left word that he’d be back this evening, miss, and that he’s got to see you.”
“Oh, he has?” Millicent’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Inform Mr. Mitchell that I decline to see him.”
“Yes, miss,” and Murray smiled broadly. “Shall I throw him out, miss?”
“Heavens, no!” exclaimed Millicent. “You might get in serious trouble with the law. He has, I suppose,” bitterly, “the right to hang about the scene of a crime—detectives are sanctioned human vultures.”
“He is, miss; a regular troublesome, meddlesome busybody, getting innocent people into trouble,” responded Murray feelingly. “He thinks he’s so bright with his ideas—I’ll idea him.” And the footman, forgetting his customary respectful attitude in his indignation, doubled up his fists suggestively. “How is Miss Deane feeling, miss?”
“Who, Miss Vera? She is at last getting some rest; be sure, Murray, and tell mother and Miss Dorothy not to disturb her when they return.”
“Certainly, miss.” The footman turned to leave. “Anything else I can get you, miss?”
“Not a thing, thank you.” But as Murray stepped around the highboy she asked: “Any telegrams or telephones?”
“No telegrams, miss; but the telephone is going every instant, ’most all of them are reporters.”