CHAPTER 4. Dinner at Fernly
It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the front- door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable promptitude by Parker, the butler.
The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat. Just then Ackroyd's secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd's study, his hands full of papers.
'Good evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?' The last was in allusion to my black bag which I had laid down on the oak chest.
I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement case at any moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond nodded, an
