, aroused from profound slumber by the ringing of his bedside telephone, heard a tense voice that summoned him at once to the house of Elijah Lockwood, his best and oldest friend.
“Well, what's the matter? What's happened?” he demanded, still muzzy with sleep. “Who's talking? What is it?”
“Mrs. Forrester talking. I can't tell you over the phone; but come quick—quick!”
“Something serious?”
“No questions—only come!”
He heard the click of the receiver being hung up.
“Damn it, that's just like a woman!” he growled, with a sick sense of tragedy clutching at his heart. “I only hope it isn't Elijah! He was all right—seemed to be all right—when I left him a couple of hours ago.”
Ten minutes later the brass-knockered door of his house boomed shut after him, and he was hurrying up Beacon Street at his best pace—not a very swift pace, at that, for Dr. Mayhew's age had brought him rotundity and shortness of breath.
He knew at once that something of tragic import was forward when, in answer to his ring at Lockwood's door, Miss Grush—a singular figure without her wig—opened it, with Mrs. Forrester standing close behind her.
Not for an instant, since the housekeeper had tried to telephone, had the other woman let her out of view. The housekeeper, older and more feeble, had not dared to try conclusions of physical force. Now Mrs. Forrester dominated the situation; but her pallor, the panic in her dark eyes, sufficiently betrayed her stress, confirming the doctor's fears.
“I'm glad you're here, I am!” began Miss Grush. “There's doings here that's got to be cleared up, and—”
“Well, what's the matter?” Mayhew wheezed asthmatically, coming in and shutting the door. “What's going on? Who's ill? You wouldn't call me out of bed for that colored wench. Must be Lockwood. Serious?”
“Yes, indeed, it's serious,” answered Mrs, Forrester.
“How serious?”
“You've got to see for yourself, doctor.”
“It 'll be serious for more than him, too, before some parties get through with it, it will!” the housekeeper affirmed with malice. 'I'll say no more—just leave the evidence to you!”
“Evidence? What the devil d'you mean, evidence? What's between you two women? What's up here?”
“You'll see, in the library,” Mrs. Forrester told him, her white lips struggling to form the words.
“By God, I'll soon get at the bottom of this!”
Dr. Mayhew forgot both his years and his avoirdupois as he ran up the stairway. Mrs. Forrester came after; and behind her followed Miss Grush, muttering broken and poisonous words.
Into the library strode Dr. Mayhew, calling the name of his old friend. He glanced at the broad divan near the street windows, thinking to find him there, stricken with some sudden illness.
“Well, where is he?”
“There!” And Mrs. Forrester pointed.
“Hello, what's this?” cried the doctor, seeing her hand. “Blood?”
She only gestured toward the big chair.
“It's blood, doctor!” the housekeeper shrilled. “It's his! When I come in, I found her with the knife in her hand, and—”
But Mayhew was not listening. He had run forward, and was already at his old friend's side.
“Elijah!” he cried in a choked voice, down beside him on the rug. For a moment Mayhew was no longer an eminent physician—only a man. He reverted to the name of boyhood days together: “Lije! Speak to me, Lije, old man!”
But this was only for a moment. Swiftly he knew the truth. Self-mastery returned. Kneeling there, he faced the women.
“Who did this?” His voice was terrible. “Who?”
“She did!” vociferated the housekeeper. “Let her deny it if she can. I heard a noise an' come right in that door—an' there she was, with the knife in her hand! See the knife there, on the floor where she dropped it? And him layin' there!”
Mayhew sprang up and advanced with menace.
“True, eh?”
“No!” Mrs. Forrester denied. “Not true that I killed him—as God hears me, o! When I heard—something, I don't know just what, but it sounded like a body falling—I came downstairs. I saw the knife, and picked it up. I saw him there. She—Miss Grush—was here, all dressed. What was she doing, all dressed, this time of night? She accused me—”
“There's hell's own work going on here!” the doctor cried. “There's murder, and one of you knows who did it! I'll have the truth out of you two, by God, if I have to tear it out with my hands! Who killed him?”
“He'd have found out that she was a faker, and wouldn't have left her a penny!” the housekeeper venomously asserted.