Keggs was an artist in tragic narration. He did not give away his climax; he led up to it by degrees as slow as his audience would permit.
“Returned? I did not know she intended to go away. Her yacht party is next week, I understand.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Where has she gone?”
“To Tuxedo, madam.”
“Tuxedo?”
“Mrs. Winfield has just rung us up from there upon the telephone to request that necessaries for an indefinite stay be despatched to her. She is visiting Mrs. Bailey Bannister.”
If Mrs. Porter had been Steve, she would probably have said “For the love of Mike!” at this point. Being herself, she merely repeated the butler’s last words.
“If I may be allowed to say so, madam, I think that there must have been trouble at Mrs. Bannister’s. A telephone-call came from her very early this morning for Mrs. Winfield which caused Mrs. Winfield to rise and leave in a taximeter-cab in an extreme hurry. If I might be allowed to suggest it, it is probably a case of serious illness. Mrs. Winfield was looking very disturbed.”
“H’m!” said Mrs. Porter. The exclamation was one of disappointment rather than of apprehension. Sudden illnesses at the Bailey home did not stir her, but she was annoyed that her recital of the squelching of the publishers would have to wait.