“Can I see your patient, Mr. Robert Hale?” he asked.
“Not now.” McLane addressed Mrs. Hale. “I have given your husband a sedative,” he said. “Keep all excitement from him when he awakens; I will call later.”
“But see here, doctor,” objected Ferguson, “I must interview Mr. Hale,” and in his earnestness he laid a persuasive hand on the surgeon’s coat sleeve.
“So you can, shortly,” answered McLane. “Come with me, Ferguson, I’ll take you to the coroner’s,” and there was that about McLane which deterred the detective from pressing the point. With a bow to the others McLane hurried away, Ferguson in his wake. Mrs. Hale gazed in dead silence at her three companions, then found relief in tears.
“Hush, Agatha,” exclaimed her brother-in-law, as her sobs grew in volume. “Calm yourself.”
John Hale’s strong voice carried some comfort, and she looked up a few minutes later as the gong over the front door rang loudly. Through her tear-dimmed eyes she had a fleeting glimpse of a familiar, slender figure hurrying past the portières and through the central hall to the circular staircase. Mrs. Hale’s tears burst out afresh.
“Oh!” she gasped. “I just can’t break the news of Austin’s death to Polly Davis—they were engaged——”
“You don’t know what you are talking about!” John Hale spoke with rough vehemence. “Polly and Austin were not engaged,” and turning on his heel he stamped his way out of the drawing-room.
Mrs. Hale gazed in bewilderment at Richards and Latimer; the former answered her unspoken question.
“Weren’t you aware of the situation?” he asked, and there was mockery in his tone. “John Hale and Austin, his stepson, were both madly in love with Polly—your husband’s secretary.”