“I am not,” said Winthrop. “I am the District Attorney of New York.” His tones were cold, precise; they fell upon the superheated brain of Dr. Rainey like drops from an icicle.
“When I took over that office,” continued Winthrop, “I found a complaint against two medical students, a failure to report the death of an old man in a private sanitarium.”
Winthrop lowered his eyes, and became deeply absorbed in the toe of his boot. “I haven’t looked into the papers, yet,” he said.
Rainey, swaying slightly, jerked open the door of the bedroom. “I’ll tell him,” he panted thickly. “I’ll tell him to do as you say.”
“Thank you, I wish you would,” said Winthrop.
At the same moment, from the hall, Garrett announced, “Mrs. Vance, sir.” And Mabel Vance, tremulous and frightened, entered the room.
Winthrop approached her eagerly.
“Ah! Mrs. Vance,” he exclaimed, “can I see Miss Vera?”
Embarrassed and unhappy, Mrs. Vance moved restlessly from foot to foot, and shook her head.
“Please, Mr. District Attorney,” she begged. “I’m afraid not. This afternoon upset her so. And she’s so nervous and queer that the Professor thinks she shouldn’t see nobody.”