“I will give you just three minutes to leave this room and house of your own accord,” she said clearly. “At the end of that time I shall ring for the servants.” And she picked up the hammer belonging to the beautiful Chinese gong which her mother used to summon her maid.
In the stillness the ticking of the dock on the desk was plainly audible. Slowly, very slowly Marjorie rose and walked with deliberation over to the door opening on the private staircase which led to Mrs. Fordyce’s suite of rooms on the floor above. Janet followed her movements with distended eyes; then the chamois-covered hammer in her hand rose and fell, stroke on stroke, until the room vibrated with the mellow tones of the Chinese gong.
Out in the wide hall a man, partly concealed by the heavy portières, jumped nervously back from the keyhole of the door as the sound of the gong reached him, and turning, scuddled down the hall just as Dr. Paul Potter came down the broad winding staircase. The latter paused as the clear bell-like vibrations of the gong drifted to his ears, bringing with them a note of urgency and appeal which he was quick to answer.
Locating the sound, he made for the Chinese room and rapped sharply on the panels of the closed door. He waited an appreciable instant, then, receiving no response, turned the knob and walked into the room. As he crossed the threshold his foot struck a small object and sent it spinning ahead of him. His eyes followed the bright silver, and he was about to advance and pick up the pencil when, looking up, he spied Janet sitting in front of the desk. Her attitude arrested his attention. Crossing the intervening space at a bound, he felt her pulse and heart; then stepped back, and his keen gaze swept the room. Convinced that they were alone, he again bent over her and laid his hand lightly on her bare neck.
“Feeling better?” he inquired some moments later.
“Yes,” Janet shivered and pulled her scarf up about her shoulders. “The incense here always makes me feel deadly faint. I don’t see how mother stands it.”
“It is trying; suppose I open the window,” moving toward it.
“Please don’t,” she shivered again. “I am quite cold enough already. I would like a glass of water,” pointing to a carafe and tumblers standing on a small table near the window. Potter quickly got it for her and watched the warm color return gradually into her pale cheeks. “That tastes so good. You kept me waiting an awfully long time, Doctor.”
“I am sorry; your father and I were reminiscing. I thought Duncan was here with you.”
“Duncan here?” He wondered at the alarm in her tone. “No, he hasn’t been near me. How is mother?”