Probably Harrison would know. A urologist had every profession in his grip sooner or later. He reached for the telephone. Dr. Harrison laughed at the question. It was the first time he had laughed since entering the hospital that morning, learning of Rose Standish's death and realizing that Bear Sterling's was only a matter of sixty or seventy hours.
"You are tired, aren't you, Mac? Give 'em some infant feeding and a dose of paregoric once around! Buck up, old man! I suggest you tell the truth, the whole truth, and let them create their own suspicions.
"Remember they were hand-picked by the Rockefeller Foundation. They are intelligent. Newspaper reporters grown up ... and you're a whiz with newspaper reporters. Call me if you need me. 'By!"
Dr. MacArthur was reassured. Like an oak, Harrison! Tried, staunch and straight!
His secretary entered and said, "Two men and a woman to see you, sir."
The two men were carrying handbags and overcoats. The first was tall and dignified. He had a long square body. Everything about him was muscular, under perfect control and heavy-set. His eyes, suit, overcoat, and hair were gray. His teeth were strong and even. His eyes showed the same steely calm that Bear Sterling's had. Judgmatical. The enemy was death; the man you were after, or yours. So far he had been lucky, and he had a lucky man's nonchalance.
"Dr. MacArthur? Matthew Higgins is my name."
His handclasp was like a vice. It steadied Dr. MacArthur like a cup of strong coffee.
Smooty was slight. His body and face were completely relaxed and pastel. Green eyes melted into mild cheeks. He had the utter inactivity and extreme alertness of a clown and the fading quality of a chameleon.
His grip was like that of a contortionist. One had to find it.
Mr. Higgins turned to the woman and said:
"I beg your pardon, Miss Parkins. I should have introduced you first, but air-travel leaves me woozy. Miss Parkins, Dr. MacArthur."
MacArthur was her kind and she sensed it. She stretched her capable hand and smiled. Their summary was like sun on metal.
One could never lose memory of her physically. She was tall, square-shouldered, with the long, slender legs of a gracefully tall woman. Her face was ugly and expressive. The nose was too short, the mouth too wide, but the flashes were sudden and revealing. They were as vivid, highly original and occasionally blank as heat lightning. And massed in with her extreme directness was a wistful, childlike appeal.