At this moment a calm, dry voice broke through the turmoil of questions and exclamations. Orde looked up to see the tall, angular form of Doctor McMullen standing in the doorway.
“It's all right,” said the doctor in answer to Orde's agonised expression. “Your wife was exposed to smallpox and is at my house to avoid the danger of spreading contagion. She is not ill.”
Having thus in one swift decisive sentence covered the ground of Orde's anxiety, he turned to the sniffling servant.
“Mary,” said he sternly, “I'm ashamed of you! What kind of an exhibition is this? Go out to the kitchen and cook us some lunch!” He watched her depart with a humourous quirk to his thin lips. “Fool Irish!” he said with a Scotchman's contempt. “I meant to head you off before you got home, but I missed you. Come in and sit down, and I'll tell you about it.”
“You're quite sure Mrs. Orde is well?” insisted Orde.
“Absolutely. Never better. As well as you are.”
“Where was she exposed?”
“Down at Heinzman's. You know—or perhaps you don't—that old Heinzman is the worst sort of anti-vaccination crank. Well, he's reaped the reward.”
“Has he smallpox?” asked Orde. “Why, I thought I remembered seeing him up river only the other day.”
“No; his daughter.”