“Nothing much, Mother. I’m sorry you were fussed.” He gave her no further explanation.
Jane put on her slippers and went off in the great car. And then Evans said, “I’m going over to Hallam’s.”
“Aren’t you well, my dear?”
“I want to talk to him.” He saw her anxious look, and bent and kissed her. “Don’t worry, Mumsie, I’m all right.”
Dr. Hallam’s old estate adjoined the Follette farm. The doctor was a nerve specialist, and went every morning to Washington, coming back at night to the quiet of his charming home. He was unmarried and was looked after by men-servants. He had been much interested in Evans’ case, and had in fact had charge of it.
The doctor was by the library fire, smoking a cigar and reading a brown book. He welcomed Evans heartily. “I was wondering when you would turn up again.” He showed the title of his book, “Boswell. There was a man. As great as the man he wrote about, and we are just beginning to find it out.”
“Rare edition?” Evans sat down.
“Yes. Got it at Lowdermilk’s yesterday.”
“We’ve oodles of old books on our shelves. Ought to sell them, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t sell one of mine.” Hallam was emphatic. “I’d rather murder a baby.”