"Hilda telephoned me," Mrs. Moore went on, in a low, matter-of-fact tone. "She was almost in hysterics, and I could not understand her fully. I thought the operation was to be done there, and so I dressed and went in a cab. Then I found that Mr. Mitchell wanted to come, and so I brought him on."
The old man tottered forward. For once he had no comment to make. He passed them, slowly ascended the steps, went into the waiting-room and sat down, leaning forward on his stout cane, which he held upright between his knees.
"We'd have got here sooner, but he stopped at the telegraph-office. Dick, he has sent a telegram to Irene in care of the Hardys. I saw by that that he didn't suspect the truth. I tried to think of some way to prevent it, but couldn't. I told him I was in a hurry, but he would stop. Now I suppose the truth will have to come out."
"It makes no difference," Mostyn answered. "It might as well come now as later."
They went in and took their seats against the wall in the waiting-room. Mitchell stared at them half drowsily, betraying the usual complacency of old age in regard to serious illness or death.
"Are they going to operate?" he asked.
Mrs. Moore told him that it had already been done.
"And Irene wasn't here," the old man sniffed, in rising ire. "It is a shame! I reckon she will have the decency to take the first train home now. This will be a lesson to her, I hope."
The nurse came down the stairs hurriedly. Her face was swept with well-controlled dismay. She paused in the doorway. Her eyes met those of the brother and sister.
"Dr. Loyd thinks you'd better come up."