CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEJohn Lenton had come in late to his supper. He was tired, and out of the common grave. Mary Lenton was a good wife. She set food before him, and she asked no questions. If he wanted to eat in silence, well, he could. And if he wanted to talk, she was here. She thought he looked dreadfully tired, but she thought there was more in his silence than fatigue. She kept her thoughts to herself, changed his plate, and presently cleared away. As she went out with the tray, he said,
“Come to the study when you’ve finished. I want to talk to you.”
She put the used china in a bowl of water and went to him.
He was walking up and down with a face of perplexity and anger. She said, “What is it, John?” and he paced the room twice before he answered her.
“You know I had a sick call—o
