“All in, sir. I’ve put your bag in what the old lady told me was your dressing-room.”
“Thanks, Gage.”
“Any message to Dr. Inglis, sir?”
“Oh, ask him to call at Mrs. Purvis’s in Carter Street; I forgot to put her on the list.”
“Right, sir,” and they heard the clash of the garden gate; then the panting of the car, and the plaintive wail of the “oil horse” as it got in gear.
“Out—old world,” and Murchison swept his wife towards the piano; “give me a song, Kate.”
“Now?” and her eyes were radiant.
“Yes, I shall remember the first song you sing to me in this dear place.”
Catherine had gone to her room, when Murchison stumbled on the hamper that Porteus Carmagee had given the man Gage to carry in the car. The fellow had set it down in the little hall, between an oak settle and a table that held a bowl of roses by the door. Murchison imagined that his wife had been investing in china or antiques. A letter was tucked under the cord, and, looking closer, he recognized his own name and the lawyer’s scrawl, the “qualifications” added with a humorous flourish of Mr. Carmagee’s pen.
Murchison sat on the oak settle, opened the envelope, and drew out the paper with its familiar crest.