CHAPTER II
MARGARET
Well, now,—his words made me shudder! I confess it with some reluctance. Of course a doctor comes in contact with enough real horrors. They become ordinary. It is those undefined, doubtful things which run fear through the veins like a drug. Nevertheless I caught myself in time to conceal my nervousness.
“Here, here, Estabrook!” I said in a sharp, businesslike tone. “We didn’t come to watch drawn curtains. The question is, did you bring your keys?”
Without asking me questions, he handed them over.
“Now, understand me,” I said, for I could see that in truth he was in no condition to offer much assistance. “My advice is for you to take these keys and walk into your own house.”
“I can’t do that,” he said irritably. “I’ve told you I can’t do it—and why I can’t.”
“Then understand me further,” I said when a shriek of wind had gone off down the avenue. “I have debated this question and decided that we must not disturb your wife. She has warned against that, and perhaps it is better to assume she is not insane and take her warning.”
“Yes, yes,” he cried. “That is right.”
“I shall not parley with Margaret Murchie,” I went on. “Move a little! I have something I want to reach under the seat. There!—I shall not ask her to come. She will have no choice. It will all be over before she has time to cry out. And you must be ready to help me carry her into this car.”