The gatekeeper passed us at Alan's request to see Dr. Turber. Our taxi swung up a winding roadway to the porte-cochere at the side of the building.
"Will he see us?" I demanded.
"If he's here, I imagine he will."
"But you're not, even outwardly, friends?"
He shrugged. "We speak pleasantly enough when we have occasion to meet. So long as he lets Nanette alone."
We were ushered into the cool quiet of a reception room. The white-clad nurse said that doubtless Dr. Turber would see us presently—he was busy at the moment. She left us.
It was a fairly large room of comfortable wicker chairs; Oriental rugs on a hardwood, polished floor; a large wicker center table strewn with the latest magazines. A cool, dim room; there were broad French windows, with shades partly drawn and additionally shrouded with heavy velvet portieres across the window alcove.
We had seated ourselves. Alan drew his chair nearer to mine. He spoke softly, swiftly, with an eye upon the archway that gave onto the main lower corridor down which the nurse had gone.
"I was thinking, Ed—when Turber comes—we've got to have some excuse for seeing the girl."
"Yes, but what?"