"You are wanted--urgent," was the message it conveyed.
Yes, he was at home. "I come, instantly," answered her lover's
window; and in less than a minute, to her infinite relief, the Doctor
emerged from his front doorway and came bustling up the street almost
at a trot.
She ran down and admitted him. In her face he read instantly that
something serious had happened; something serious if not
catastrophical: but with finger on lip she enjoined silence and led
the way to the parlour.
"This gentleman has just arrived from Plymouth, with serious news of
the Major."
"Serious? He is not ill, I trust?"
"Worse," said Mr. Basket.
"But first," interposed Miss Marty, "you must read this letter.
Yes, yes!"--blushing hotly, she thrust it into the Doctor's
unresisting hands--"you have the right. Forgive me if I seem
indecorous: but in such a situation you only can help me."
"Eh? Oh, certainly--h'm, h'm!--" The Doctor adjusted his glasses and
began to read in a low mumbling voice. By and by he paused, then
slowly looked up with pained, incredulous eyes.
"This is some horrible dream!" he groaned and, feeling his way to the
Major's armchair, sank into it heavily.
"He swoons!" exclaimed Miss Marty. "One moment--a glassful of the
Fra Angelico!"
She ran to the cupboard, found decanter and glasses, poured out a
dose and came hurrying back with it. He declined it, waving her off
with a feeble motion of the hand.
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