"Very well." Mostyn was stalking back to the child when the doctor detained him.
"And his mother—I don't see her about; is she at home?"
"No, she is out of town. Just now she is away."
"Well, you had better telegraph her."
"I—I don't exactly know where she is." Mostyn was vaguely thankful for the dimness of the hall light.
"You must find her—locate her at once."
"Is it really so—so serious as that?"
"I may as well be frank." The doctor cleared his throat. "It won't do any good to mislead you. The little fellow has a weak heart, as I explained the last time he was ill, and it seems worse now. Then—then, I am sorry to say that I detect strong symptoms of peritonitis. If I could have seen him a week ago—I presume the fact of your wife being away, and you being busy at the bank—"
Mostyn's head rocked like a stone balanced on a pivot. "Yes," he said. "I am afraid we were not attentive enough. Will you be ready soon?"
"Yes; tell Dick it is for a ride in my car. He won't mind it. He is a plucky little fellow. He has fought that pain for several days. We would have known it earlier but for that."