“I realize that you were not to blame,” answered Vera. “But the others—” Her small hand clenched. “I’d rather forget the scene, Murray; some day, perhaps, I’ll get square with those men for the fright they gave me.”
“I hope you will, miss.” Murray threw open the library door. “I’m wishing Mrs. Porter would give orders not to admit them. Me and Selby are waiting our chance.” And he smiled significantly.
“Perhaps she will.” And Vera glanced earnestly at the footman. “You are not looking very well today, Murray; have you tried that tonic Dr. Noyes advised?”
The footman brightened. “I have, miss, but it don’t agree with me, and the neuralgia’s getting worse.”
“That’s too bad. Come upstairs later and I will give you a tube of Baume Analgésique Bengué.” As the French name tripped off her tongue Murray regarded her with respectful admiration.
“It sounds great, miss; I’d like to use it, thank you.” And he departed for his pantry, his manner almost cheerful.
Left to herself Vera closed the library door and approached the telephone with some hesitancy; she could think of no friend who would have a reason for not giving his name to the footman and concluded Murray was right in imagining the “party” to be a detective. Her interview with Mitchell the day before was still fresh in her mind and she resented the idea of further impertinence. It occurred to her, as she toyed with the receiver, that it was a simple matter to ring off if she found it was Mitchell at the other end of the wire; then a thought stayed her—suppose it was Dr. Beverly Thorne waiting to speak to her? Her expression hardened, and her voice sounded clear and cold as she called into the mouthpiece:
“Well?”
An unknown voice replied: “Is this Nurse Vera Deane?”
Vera’s expression altered. “Yes, what is it?”