She saw his well-cut features, broad brow, and gray hair through a blur. His concern deepened at sight of her evident unhappiness. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Tell me.”
Miriam collected her wits. “I—I’ll be myself in a minute,” she said, brokenly. “I had hoped to leave the case to-night and was counting on that. I suppose,” looking appealingly at him, “that you won’t let me off.”
“You realize Mrs. Nash’s condition as well as I,” he replied, and Miriam sighed; she had anticipated such an answer.
“Very well, Doctor. No—” as the scene of the morning rose vividly before her. “I can’t nurse that man’s wife!”
“What has Nash to do with it?” asked Roberts, in astonishment.
“He denied that he was here on Monday night with Miss Carter,” looking straight at Roberts, “and, Doctor, he, a minister of the gospel, lied.”
“Well, I’ll be—” Roberts checked back the oath with an effort. The silence lengthened as they faced each other. Suddenly the physician turned and paced rapidly up and down, then paused abruptly. “Miss Ward,” she looked up at the seriousness of his tone, “you are acquainted with the ethics of our profession. A doctor often becomes cognizant of conditions in a home of which he cannot speak. Alexander Nash’s conduct,” he paused again, “gives rise to doubt, and, it may be, to investigation. I think,” his voice deepened, “that the quicker we get Mrs. Nash on her feet, the sooner will we arrive at a solution of—many things.”
Miriam drew in a long breath. “You may be right, Doctor,” she admitted. “I’ll get into my uniform after dinner.”
It was a somber, silent group that drove in the Rolls-Royce from the country cemetery to Guy Trenholm’s bungalow five miles distant from Upper Marlboro. Pierre followed the sheriff’s directions as to crossroads with indifferent success and Betty finally complained of the rough going and frequent turns.
Trenholm lifted the speaking tube as they approached a white gate which opened on a roadway to a picturesque building partly concealed from the road by a number of trees.