“What?” demanded Judith and her husband in unison.
“Anna has fallen and sprained her ankle.”
“Is that all?” Judith’s relief took the form of a short laugh.
“All? Good gracious, to have a waitress laid up is serious enough, without having that waitress, Anna,” Mrs. Hale spoke in scandalized disapproval. “Anna is the most useful person in the house.”
“I know she is,” agreed Judith. “I spoke in haste, Mother, but you frightened me; I thought something had happened to—to Father.”
“Let me call a doctor,” suggested Richards practically and walked toward the desk phone. But Mrs. Hale stopped him.
“I have already telephoned,” she explained. “McLane is detained at the hospital with a serious case and can’t come, but he gave me explicit directions over the phone, and I shall carry them out.” Mrs. Hale had unbounded confidence in her medical knowledge, a confidence, however, not shared by the members of her family. “But I find that we have no arnica in the medicine chest.”
“Let me go for it,” volunteered Richards and, not waiting for Mrs. Hale’s voluble thanks, he started for the door, pausing only to call to Judith. “Run upstairs, Judith, don’t wait for me.” Snatching up his hat and overcoat, he disappeared out of the house, in his haste never hearing Mrs. Hale’s parting injunction. She turned with a worried air to her daughter.
“I declare, Judith, I forgot to ask him to get bandages.”
“I have some.” Judith slipped her arm inside her mother’s. “Come up to my boudoir and then I will go with you to see Anna.”