John Reynolds had gone to help the two men get Murchison up the steps into the house.
“Good God, sir,” he said, “pull yourself together!”
“Lemme go, R’nolds, I can walk.”
“Steady, sir, steady! For the love of your good lady, get inside.”
And between them they half carried him into the house, three men awed by a strong man’s shame.
Catherine had locked the two children into the nursery. She stood on the stairs, and saw the limp figure of her husband lifted across the hall into his consulting-room. It was as though fate had given her the last most bitter draught to drink. Their cause was lost. She felt it to be the end.
Reynolds, the dispenser, came to her across the hall. The man was almost weeping, so bitterly did he feel the misery of it all.
“I—I have sent for Dr. Inglis.”
“Thank you, Reynolds.”
“Shall I stay?”