The man glanced backward over his right shoulder as though he had been followed by a ghost.
“Dr. Murchison was taken ill at the County Club. They sent round for me. Good God, ma’am, get the children out of the way!”
For a moment Catherine stood motionless with the sun blazing upon her face, her eyes fixed upon a knot of figures dimly seen under the shadows of the mighty elms. A great shudder passed through her body. She stooped, caught up Gwen, and carried the wondering child into the house. Reynolds, the dispenser, followed with the boy, who rebelled strenuously, his querulous innocence making the tragedy more poignant and pathetic.
“Shut up, silly old Reynolds—”
“There, there, Master Jack,” and the man panted; “be quiet, sir. Mrs. Murchison, I must—you understand.”
Catherine, her face wonderful in its white restraint, her eyes full of the horror of keen consciousness, hurried the two children up the stairs. Outside in the sunlit street the club porter and a laboring man were swaying along with an unsteady figure grappled by either arm. The troop of small boys sneaked along the sidewalk, and on the opposite pavement some dozen spectators watched the affair incredulously across the road.
“Dang me if it ain’t the doctor.”
“What, Jim Murchison?”
“Drunk as blazes.”
A little widow woman in black slipped away with a shudder from the coarse voices of the men. “How horrible!” And she looked ready to weep, for she was one of Murchison’s patients and had known much kindness at his hands.