It was a little after nine when there was a ring at the hall door. Not
the lovers back so early? She heard a man's voice in the hall. The next
moment Beaumaroy was shown in, and the door shut behind him. He stood
still by it, making no motion to advance towards her. He was breathing
quickly, and she noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead. She had
sprung to her feet at the sight of him and faced him with indignation.
"You have no right to come here, Mr. Beaumaroy, after what passed
between us this afternoon."
"Besides being, as you saw yourself, very excited, my poor old friend
isn't at all well tonight."
"I'm very sorry; but I'm no longer Mr. Saffron's medical attendant. If I
declined to be this afternoon, I decline ten times more tonight."
"For all I know, he's very ill indeed, Dr. Arkroyd." Beaumaroy's manner
was very quiet, restrained, and formal.
"I have come to a clear conclusion about Mr. Saffron's case since I
left you."
"I thought you might. I suppose 'Morocco' put you on the scent? And I
suppose, too, that you looked at that wretched bit of paper?"
"I--I thought of it--" Here Mary was slightly embarrassed.
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