From her couch, Mrs. Nash watched her opportunity. With a gesture of surprising quickness she removed the thermometer from her mouth and tucked it unseen against the hot water bottle. When Doctor Roberts closed his notebook and turned back to her, the thermometer was once again held firmly between her lips. He took it out, looked at it twice, and then at Mrs. Nash’s scarlet countenance.
“Miss Ward,” he called, and his voice was grave. “Don’t order a taxi—I think that you had better remain and prepare a bedroom for Mrs. Nash,” and then, in an undertone, as Miriam gained his side, “it will never do to take Mrs. Nash out in this weather—her temperature reads 103°.”
CHAPTER V
SHERIFF TRENHOLM ASKS QUESTIONS
A distinct and unmistakable snore from the bed caused Miriam to approach her patient. Mrs. Nash, her head unevenly balanced between two pillows, was at last asleep. To place her in a more comfortable position would undoubtedly awaken her, and Miriam backed away on tiptoe from the bedside. She had spent three weary hours at Mrs. Nash’s beck and call; she had run every conceivable errand the sick woman’s fancy had dictated, had prepared her for bed, and finally induced her, on threat of departure, to swallow the medicine prescribed by Doctor Roberts.
Martha’s scanty wardrobe could not provide clothing for Mrs. Nash, and the housekeeper had been dispatched to Upper Marlboro, the county seat, in the Nash limousine which had finally put in an appearance, to purchase such necessities as the country stores could supply. Betty Carter had taken little part in the discussion, contenting herself with the request that Martha buy a wrapper, bedroom slippers, and a night dress and bring them at once to her room, whereupon she had gone upstairs and locked her door. Martha had carried her dinner to her upon her return from the shopping expedition.
Miriam had been too intent upon her professional duties to pay much attention to the other members of the small party, but she had gathered from Martha’s remarks that Alan Mason and Doctor Roberts had left for Upper Marlboro in the latter’s car shortly after dinner. Martha, with a sidelong glance which Miriam was beginning to associate with the housekeeper’s personality, had overheard Alan tell her husband that he would return in time to “sit up with Mr. Paul.”
“Ain’t it awful, Ma’am—Miss, to think of that poor gentleman lying in t’other room dead,” she went on, with a shiver. “And him so sot on getting well. Poor Mr. Paul!” And she wiped away a few tears with the hem of her clean apron. “He won’t rest easy in his grave.”
The housekeeper’s words recurred to Miriam as her gaze, which had been wandering about the room, rested on a small, black-bordered sketch of what appeared to be a group of neglected graves. The picture was well executed, but Miriam wondered at its selection for a decoration in a bedroom. From the drawing Miriam’s eyes wandered to several paintings on the wall, and, from the likeness of one of the portraits to Paul Abbott, she judged it to be that of his father. Evidently the room given to Mrs. Nash had once been occupied by the elder Abbott, whether as bedroom or sitting room was hard to say, for the remainder of the pictures on the wall were hunting scenes and, except for the bedstead, the rest of the furniture was such as is found in a man’s “den.”
Miriam selected the most comfortable of the easy-chairs and, taking care to make no noise, pushed it around so that from its depths she could have an unobstructed view of her patient. Her fatigued muscles relaxed as she sank back in the chair, but her brain—ah, it was on fire! For a moment she looked with envy at the slumbering woman. If she could only sleep as soundly with no visions of the past to disturb her! The present was bad enough in all conscience—who could have murdered Paul Abbott and what possible motive could have inspired the crime?
The cautious turning of the door knob and the slow opening of the door caused her to bend forward in her chair. Sheriff Trenholm leaned inside the door and, catching sight of Miriam, raised a beckoning finger, and then placed it against his lips, enjoining silence.