“Very well, madam.”
“Wait, there’s one thing more.” Mrs. Hale laid aside her knitting bag, preparatory to rising. “See that the table is properly set, Anna, please. Maud is—eh—not particular, and I am.”
“I will set the table myself, madam.”
“No, no, that is too much exertion for you, Anna.”
“But, madam, I am strong again, see”—and Anna stepped across the room. Her limp was slight. Mrs. Hale heaved a sigh of relief.
“You have had a remarkable recovery,” she exclaimed. “My remedies can be relied on to effect a quick cure. By the way,”—the thought of luncheon uppermost for the moment—“if there is time enough, please make an apple salad.”
“Certainly, madam. Is there anything else?”
“No, I can think of nothing.” Mrs. Hale wrinkled her brow, but no new ideas came to her active brain. “Where is Miss Judith?”
“In her boudoir, madam.” Anna, who had taken several steps toward the door, paused. “Maud told me just now that Miss Judith and Detective Ferguson have been holding a long”—Anna hesitated—“conference.”
“Conference!” Mrs. Hale’s tone expressed astonishment. “Oh!” and she stared at the waiting servant. “That is all, Anna,” and the waitress made her escape.