“Yes. Why?” glancing keenly at her flushed cheeks.
“Nothing—that is,” avoiding his gaze. “Don’t keep Mrs. Nash waiting,” as she hurried away with a fast beating heart. She had recalled the name of Betty’s companion on her midnight visit to Paul Abbott—Doctor Nash.
Mrs. Nash accepted the proffered whisky with relief. “I need a bracer,” she admitted. “Indeed, Betty, the shocking news of poor Paul’s untimely death bowled me over; and then to be told that you had raced out here in a hired taxi, without either your uncle or me,—it—it—took my breath away.” A shiver which she could not check shook her from head to foot and Doctor Roberts helped her to a couch, while Betty brought a heavy laprobe and threw it over her aunt. As she turned away Mrs. Nash caught Doctor Roberts’ coat sleeve and motioned to him to bend down.
“Is it really true,” she questioned him in a whisper, “that Paul has been murdered?”
“Yes. Hush, no details now,” as Miriam approached the couch. He addressed her in his customary tone of voice. “Ah, a hot water bag; just the thing. You are fortunate, Mrs. Nash, in having a trained nurse right here at your elbow.”
“Thank you!” Mrs. Nash’s piercing black eyes took in Miriam’s appearance in a pronounced stare. She permitted Miriam to make herself more comfortable, before addressing her again. “Have you been nursing Mr. Abbott?”
“Yes.” Miriam stepped back from the couch and turned to Doctor Roberts. “I think I had better telephone for a taxi.”
“And my aunt can return to Washington with you,” broke in Betty Carter as she joined the small group. “It will be an excellent arrangement.”
“I make my own plans, thank you,” retorted Mrs. Nash, whose high color betokened a touch of temper. “Do you suppose that with this attack of flu I can venture out of doors again?”
“You don’t mean to say you propose to spend the night here?” asked Alan, returning in time to hear her last remark.