"I am very sorry you have made this decision," he said. "Miss Innes,

Mrs. Fitzhugh tells me Louise Armstrong is with you."

"She is."

"Has she been informed of this--double bereavement?"

"Not yet," I said. "She has been very ill; perhaps to-night she can be

told."

"It is very sad; very sad," he said. "I have a telegram for her, Mrs.

Innes. Shall I send it out?"

"Better open it and read it to me," I suggested. "If it is important,

that will save time."

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There was a pause while Mr. Harton opened the telegram. Then he read

it slowly, judicially.

"'Watch for Nina Carrington. Home Monday. Signed F. L. W.'"

"Hum!" I said. "'Watch for Nina Carrington. Home Monday.' Very well,

Mr. Harton, I will tell her, but she is not in condition to watch for

any one."

"Well, Miss Innes, if you decide to--er--relinquish the lease, let me

know," the lawyer said.

"I shall not relinquish it," I replied, and I imagined his irritation

from the way he hung up the receiver.

I wrote the telegram down word for word, afraid to trust my memory, and

decided to ask Doctor Stewart how soon Louise might be told the truth.

The closing of the Traders' Bank I considered unnecessary for her to

know, but the death of her stepfather and stepbrother must be broken to

her soon, or she might hear it in some unexpected and shocking manner.

Doctor Stewart came about four o'clock, bringing his leather satchel

into the house with a great deal of care, and opening it at the foot of

the stairs to show me a dozen big yellow eggs nesting among the bottles.

"Real eggs," he said proudly. "None of your anemic store eggs, but the

real thing--some of them still warm. Feel them! Egg-nog for Miss

Louise."

He was beaming with satisfaction, and before he left, he insisted on

going back to the pantry and making an egg-nog with his own hands.

Somehow, all the time he was doing it, I had a vision of Doctor

Willoughby, my nerve specialist in the city, trying to make an egg-nog.

I wondered if he ever prescribed anything so plebeian--and so

delicious. And while Doctor Stewart whisked the eggs he talked.

"I said to Mrs. Stewart," he confided, a little red in the face from

the exertion, "after I went home the other day, that you would think me

an old gossip, for saying what I did about Walker and Miss Louise."

"Nothing of the sort," I protested.

"The fact is," he went on, evidently justifying him self, "I got that

piece of information just as we get a lot of things, through the

kitchen end of the house. Young Walker's chauffeur--Walker's more

fashionable than I am, and he goes around the country in a Stanhope

car--well, his chauffeur comes to see our servant girl, and he told her

the whole thing. I thought it was probable, because Walker spent a lot

of time up here last summer, when the family was here, and besides,

Riggs, that's Walker's man, had a very pat little story about the

doctor's building a house on this property, just at the foot of the

hill. The sugar, please."




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