Charles, the butler, stared in dismay at the untasted breakfast sitting temptingly before Walter Ogden. Not a dish had been touched, and twenty minutes had elapsed since he brought them in, hot from the kitchen. The perturbed butler took a hesitating step toward Ogden but a glimpse of his face behind the morning paper, and its forbidding expression caused Charles to retreat on tip-toe, his warning about a cold breakfast unspoken. Once before he had incautiously interrupted Ogden at just such a moment, and had fled before the storm provoked by his temerity.
Charles had left the room but a bare five minutes when Ogden threw down his newspaper, poured out a cup of coffee, drank it almost in one gulp, and leaving his breakfast uneaten, walked heavily away from the table. His destination was his wife’s bedroom, and he found her sitting before the mahogany dressing table arranging her hair, with an absorption as to detail which admitted no hurry.
“I won’t be very long,” exclaimed Mrs. Ogden, catching sight of her husband’s reflection in the mirror. “Go down and get your breakfast; don’t wait for me,—I can’t be any quicker than I can.”
Mrs. Ogden could not break herself of the last phrase; it was invariably a red rag to her husband, whose impatient disposition chafed at being kept waiting, even for an infinitesimal second. He did not retreat as Mrs. Ogden hoped he would, but instead advanced into the bedroom.
“Send your maid away,” he directed, scowling at the pretty French woman, and Mrs. Ogden with a resigned expression directed Celeste to wait in her own room until she rang for her. When the door had closed behind the maid, Ogden jerked a chair forward and planted it by the dressing table.
“What do you think of the papers?” he demanded.
“The papers?” repeated Mrs. Ogden. “I haven’t had time to read them; well, you needn’t be provoked,” offended by Ogden’s impatient snort. “It’s your own fault; if you didn’t insist on my breakfasting downstairs, I could read the papers in bed.”
“Here is the Post,” Ogden thrust the newspaper into her hand. “Read this account of the inquest,” and at the word “inquest” his wife seized the paper with avidity, but her reading of the article was delayed by a search for her eyeglasses which had misplaced themselves, according to Mrs. Ogden. Thoroughly exasperated, Ogden tumbled the puffs and hairpins about the dressing table until he drew a wail from Mrs. Ogden, who had finally discovered the missing glasses under her pillow. But the lure of the newspaper averted any lengthened argument, and Mrs. Ogden read the entire article before her husband again addressed her.
“What do you make of it?” he asked as she lowered the paper.
“I don’t know exactly what to think,” she answered. “I wish I had been permitted to sit in the courtroom and listen to the other witnesses testify.”