James Murchison was smoking in his study early the same afternoon, ticking off visits in his pocket-book, when his wife came to him with a letter in her hand.
“From Marley, dear. A man has just ridden in with it. They need you at once.”
“Marley? Why, the Penningtons belong to Steel.”
He tore open the envelope and glanced through the letter, while his wife looked whimsically at the chaos of books and papers on his desk. The ground was holy, and her tact debarred her from meddling with the muddle. The room still had a sense of shadow for her. She could not enter it without an indefinable sense of dread.
Murchison did not show the letter to his wife. He put it in his pocket, knocked out his pipe, and picked up his stethoscope that was lying on the table.
“I am afraid you will have to go to the Stantons’ without me, dear,” he said; “Steel wants me at Marley.”
Catherine gave him a surprised flash of the eyes.
“Something serious?”
“Possibly.”
“Parker Steel is not fond of asking your advice.”