The cold sky rose dusted with a few stars in the west when the farmer’s cart set Murchison down in Lombard Street before his own door. Dinner had been waiting more than an hour. Catherine’s face, bright, yet a little troubled, met him in the shaded glow of the hall.
“You must be soaked to the skin, dear,” and she felt his clothes.
“No, nothing much. I’m more hungry than wet.”
“A long case. Dinner is ready.”
They went into the dining-room together, Murchison’s arm about her body.
“Some responsibility for me at last,” he said, quietly; “I believe it is typhoid.”
“Where, at Goldspur Farm?”
“Yes, among Carrington’s pickers.”
“Poor things!”
“They are cooped up like cattle in a shed.”