That point sorely perplexed her.
Meanwhile Ena Pollen telephoned twice a day to Golder's Green to inquire how her friend Mrs. Morrison progressed, and on each occasion the matron would answer her, but the news was of increasing gravity.
She sent kind messages, but the matron expressed regret that the patient was too ill to be given them.
On the evening when Marigold had sped back to Wimbledon hoping for a further telegram, Miss Propert had, after telling the Red Widow how critical was Mrs. Morrison's condition, added that some relatives had come up from Brighton.
"Unfortunately, the doctor will not allow anyone to see her," she went on. "Only this evening I have had a telegram from her sister in Scotland saying she is on her way to London, but as she gives no address, I am unable to stop her, so her journey will be useless."
"Useless? Why?" asked Ena.
"Well—I'm sorry to tell you that the doctor who saw her an hour ago holds out but little hope of her recovery. She has diphtheria in its most virulent form."
"Oh! How terrible!" cried Ena. "But is it really so very serious?"
"Yes. There is no use disguising the fact. It is a most critical case."
"But, surely, there is no immediate danger?" she asked, full of concern.