Vance rose early, and, though he said little, I knew the case was preying on his mind. After breakfast he sat before the fire for over an hour sipping his coffee and smoking. Then he made an attempt to interest himself in an old French edition of “Till Ulenspiegel,” but, failing, took down Volume VII of Osler’s “Modern Medicine” and turned to Buzzard’s article on myelitis. For an hour he read with despairing concentration. At last he returned the book to the shelf.
At half past eleven Markham telephoned to inform us that he was leaving the office immediately for the Greene mansion and would stop en route to pick us up. He refused to say more, and hung up the receiver abruptly.
It wanted ten minutes of being noon when he arrived; and his expression of grim discouragement told us more plainly than words that another tragedy had occurred. We had on our coats in readiness and accompanied him at once to the car.
“And who is it this time?” asked Vance, as we swung into Park Avenue.
“Ada.” Markham spoke bitterly through his teeth.
“I was afraid of that, after what she told us yesterday.—With poison, I suppose.”
“Yes—the morphine.”
“Still, it’s an easier death than strychnine-poisoning.”
“She’s not dead, thank God!” said Markham. “That is, she was still alive when Heath phoned.”
“Heath? Was he at the house?”