“Julianna!” Estabrook exclaimed with horror.
The other shook his head patiently from side to side.
“I meant Margaret Murchie,” he whispered.
Then, feeling the wistful gaze of his worn and watery eyes upon our backs, we left the Mohave Scenic Studio forever. A run across town in my car brought us again to my door. My scrawny busybody of a maid opened it before I had opportunity to even draw forth my key.
“Four or five telephone calls,” she said with her impudent importance, “but only one is pressing.”
“Somebody I don’t know, Doctor. Margaret Somebody. She left a message. She wouldn’t say no more than just one word.”
“What was that word?” cried Estabrook at my shoulder.
“Danger.”
I suppose that both of us felt the shock and then the tingle of excitement in the meaning of that phrase, interpreted in the light of our understanding.