“An hour ago. Have you any orders, doctor?”
“You can give him a dose of this through the night”—taking out a small phial and handing it to her—“the directions are on the bottle. It is essential that Mr. Abbott have sleep; if necessary, give him this by hypodermic.” And he handed her two pellets.
“What stimulation do you wish me to use in case of sudden collapse?” Miss Ward asked as Roberts picked up his bag and walked toward the front door.
“Strychnine, twentieth of a grain,” brusquely, as the hall clock chimed ten, but his hurried exit was checked by a further question.
“Has Mr. Abbott any family to be notified in case his condition becomes dangerous?” asked Miss Ward.
“No immediate relations.” Doctor Roberts was manifestly impatient to be off. “There’s a girl—Betty Carter—but I’m not sure that the engagement isn’t broken. Good night.” The high wind drove the snow, which had drifted up on the broad veranda, in whirling gusts through the front door and half blinded Roberts as he held it partly open. With a muttered oath he dashed outside to his automobile, parked under the shelter of the porte cochère.
Miss Ward heard the whir of the starting motor, the grinding of weed chains and the shifting of gears before she closed the outer vestibule door. It was with a sense of reluctance that she turned back into the silent house. The storm and her surroundings oppressed her.
The old homestead, turned from a large-sized, roomy farmhouse into a hunting lodge, with its wide entrance hall converted into a living room from which ran numerous twisting passages, was a gloomy place in winter. Through darkened doorways Miss Ward obtained a vague impression of larger rooms beyond which she judged to be library, dining room, and possibly a sunparlor.
Paul Mason Abbott, Senior, had prospered in his real estate business, and had acquired, in one of his deals, the country property, twenty miles from Washington, the National Capital, which, with a substantial fortune, he had bequeathed to his only son, Paul. The latter’s career as a promising young architect had been interrupted by the World War. Paul had borne his share of the fighting, returning to his home with health shattered and a morbid desire to live alone.
He had closed his bachelor apartment in Washington in the early spring and spent the following months motoring about the country. Just before Christmas he had appeared unexpectedly at Abbott’s Lodge and announced that he would reside there indefinitely. Corbin, the caretaker, had given him but a taciturn welcome, and neither he nor his wife had done more than provide Abbott with three meals a day and such heat as was absolutely necessary to warm the house.