"Oh, you poor girl! I'm so sorry, Nan dear. I'll be over immediately." His voice dropped several octaves, but the words came to the listeners none the less distinctly. "Be brave, sweetheart."
Mrs. McKaye glanced at her husband in time to see him avert his face; she noted how he clutched the arm of his chair.
To quote a homely phrase, the cat was out of the bag at last. Donald's face wore a troubled expression as he reentered the living-room. His mother spoke first.
"Donald! My son!" she murmured tragically.
"Hum-m—!" The Laird grunted. The storm had broken at last, and, following the trend of human nature, he was conscious of sudden relief.
Jane was the first to recover her customary aplomb.
"Don dear," she cooed throatily, "are we mistaken in our assumption that the person with whom you have just talked is Nan Brent?"
"Your penetration does you credit, Jane. It was."
"And did our ears deceive us or did we really hear you call her 'dear' and 'sweetheart'?"
"It is quite possible," Donald answered. He crossed the room and paused beside his father. "Caleb Brent blinked out a few minutes ago, dad. It was quite sudden. Heart-trouble. Nan's all alone down there, and of course she needs help. I'm going. I'll leave to you the job of explaining the situation to mother and the girls. Good-night, pop; I think you understand."