"Is old Mr. Wright worse?" Martha called downstairs, when the doctor
let himself in at midnight.

"No."

"Well, where on earth have you been?" Mrs. King demanded. She was
leaning over the banisters in her gray flannel dressing-gown, her
candle in its hooded candlestick, throwing a flickering light on her
square, anxious face.

William, locking the front door, made no answer. Martha hesitated, and
then came down-stairs.

"I must say, William, flatly and frankly, that you--" she paused. "You
look tired out, Willy?"

William, fumbling with the guard-chain, was silent.

"Come into the dining-room and I'll get you something to eat," said
his wife.

"I don't want anything to eat."

Martha glanced at him keenly. His face was white and haggard, and
though he looked at her, he did not seem to see her; when she said
again something about food, he made no answer. "Why, William!" she
said in a frightened voice. Then with quick common sense, she put her
alarm behind her. "Come up-stairs, and go to bed. A good night's sleep
will make a new man of you." And in a sort of cheerful silence, she
pushed him along in front of her. She asked no more questions, but
just as he got into bed she brought him a steaming tumbler of whiskey
and water. "I guess you have taken a little cold, my dear," she said.