“We must telegraph,” said Mrs. Graham, nodding her head with great decision. “Yes, we must telegraph, and to Dr. Pennington.”
It was later than usual that evening when Dr. John Pennington dropped into the little French restaurant near his office, to which his bachelorhood doomed him, and, as almost every one else had gone, he was forced to eat a solitary meal. As he looked carelessly through an evening paper which he had taken up to pass the time, he happened to notice the following bit of news:
“The village of Marston is very much excited over several burglaries committed there recently. The residence of E. L. Marmaduke, a wealthy merchant of New York City, was entered on Tuesday night, and a large quantity of jewelry and silver stolen. Last night, after visiting several houses with little success, the burglars broke into the railroad-station. Many commutation tickets had been renewed the day before, and the burglars secured nearly two hundred dollars in money. There are supposed to be three men in the gang. No clue to them has yet been found.”
“I wonder,” thought the doctor, as he slowly sipped his coffee, “I wonder if they have been to the Grahams’ yet. If they have, I’ll wager a large amount—I’d go as high as my last year’s professional income—that Mrs. Graham is now in a state of violent hysterics. If they haven’t, she has at least sufficient material to keep her in a state of worry for about one year.” He finished his coffee. “I believe I’ll run out to Marston to-morrow,” he continued, thoughtfully; “that is, if I’m not too much occupied.” (Pennington religiously made this reservation, though since he had become a doctor he had never been too much occupied.) “I haven’t been there for a long time, and the burglaries will give me a good excuse for leaving my patients.”
Having made this determination, he dismissed the matter from his mind, and, finishing his coffee, sat in silence till he had smoked his cigar. Then he went home to take up his usual task of waiting for patients. When he reached his rooms, he found Mrs. Graham’s telegram on his table. It was as enigmatical as women’s communications generally are, and was worded thus:
“Will you kindly take ten-o’clock train and spend night with us? Will explain on arrival.”
“Spend the night? Will explain on arrival? What on earth can the woman mean?” cried the doctor. “Can any of the family be sick, I wonder? If so, why should she send for me, when there must be other doctors near by? No: that can’t be the reason.” But, as he could think of no other explanation, he accepted this one as the most plausible, and decided to take his case of medicines with him to Marston. Looking at his watch, he saw that he could barely catch the train, and hastily began to pack his handbag. Then, telling his landlady that he would be back in the morning, he called a cab, and reached the station with five minutes to spare.
A night ride in an accommodation train is not exciting, and Pennington’s trip to Marston was monotonous enough. He did not dare to read by the villainous light, and so he devoted his time to speculating on Mrs. Graham’s telegram. He stepped from the train at Marston, however, without having come to any definite conclusion on the subject.
“I think, sir,” said an elderly coachman, stepping up to the young doctor and touching his hat, “I think you must be the gentl’n h’expected at the Grahams’. Will you step this way, sir? I ‘ave the buggy ‘ere. These burglaries are h’awful, ain’t they, sir?” he began, as he touched up the little mare.
“Burglaries?” said Pennington. “Oh, yes, I did read about some burglaries up here—”