"Here we are," said Phil Abingdon.
She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the
girl into Doctor McMurdoch's house. Here he made the acquaintance
of Mrs. McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to
anticipate, was as plump and merry and vivacious as her husband
was lean, gloomy, and taciturn. But she was a perfect well of
sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved girl showed. She took
her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was good to see.
"We were waiting for you, dear," she said when the formality of
presenting Harley was over. "Are you quite sure that you want to
go?"
Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had raised her veil, and
Harley could see that her eyes were full of tears. "I should like
to see the flowers," she answered.
She was staying at the McMurdochs' house, and as the object at
present in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which
the funeral of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the
morrow, Harley became suddenly conscious of the fact that his
presence was inopportune.
"I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch," he said,
turning to the dour physician. "Shall I await your return or do
you expect to be detained?"
But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter. She stepped up
beside him and linked her arm in his.
"Please come with me, Mr. Harley," she pleaded. "I want you to."
As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the
hall of the late Sir Charles's house.
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