“Indeed!”
“And that he knows that he has not told me the truth.”
Both heard the rattle of a latch-key in the lock of the front door, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. Symons could be heard hurrying up the stairs from the kitchen. She spoke to some one in the hall, a tired and toneless voice answering her in curt monosyllables. It was Parker Steel.
Dr. Peterson walked up the room and back again to the window, glancing rather nervously at the clock as he passed. His attitude was that of a man who has been entangled in the meshes of a very delicate dilemma, and he was waiting to see how Betty Steel’s mood shaped. She was standing with one hand resting on the back of a chair, as though steadying herself for the inevitable crisis.
“Ah, good-day; I must apologize—Betty!”
He had entered with an elaborate flourish intended to suggest the brisk candor of a man much hurried in the public service. His wife’s figure, outlined against the window, brought him to a dead halt on the threshold. The blood seemed to recede from his face in an instant. The alert, confident manner became a tense effort towards naturalness and self-control.
“You will excuse us, Betty. Dr. Peterson and I have matters to discuss.”
He held the door open for her, but she did not budge.
“I am consulting Dr. Peterson, Parker.”
Her husband’s face seemed to grow thin and haggard, with the lights and shadows of the hall for a checkered background. The specialist stood jerking his watch-chain up and down.