“He’s dead,” she stammered. “Really dead?”
“Yes—thank God!” answered Maynard, and at the look which crept into his eyes she turned and with a low cry pillowed her head on her arms across the desk and lay as one dead.
Maynard waited in silence for fully five minutes, then he called her softly.
“Can I be of service?” he asked. A shake of her head was the only sign that he heard.
“Do you wish me to stay?” he asked, and had to stoop to catch her muffled: “No.”
Picking up his hat in the hall he paused in uncertainty; then recollection of Mammy’s presence in the apartment convinced him that he was not leaving Marian alone, and opening the door he went slowly down the corridor to the elevator shaft.
He had been gone a scant three minutes when Mammy’s black face peered out from Marian’s bedroom; a second later she was by Marian’s side. At her loving touch Marian sat up and Mammy’s glance strayed from her blanched face to the photograph lying face up on the desk.
“I heerd all,” she said in a husky whisper. “An’ he’s daid,” touching the photograph. “’Peers like de Lord do know His business, but de debble musta sent Marse Dan to de Burnham house on Monday night.”
“H—h—ush!” And Marian clasped her in an agonizing grip as her terrified eyes swept the pretty room. “Hush!”