Chandler. Hearing the click of the telephone receiver on the cradle, Doug Layton tapped on the door and waited for Mrs. Clausen's response. For a long moment, she did not respond. Then as he was about to knock again, he heard a faint groan, and rushed in.Jane Clausen was leaning back in the chair, her face contorted in pain. She looked up at him, shook her head, and pointed past him. He knew what she meant. Get out and close the door behind you.Silently he obeyed. There was no question that her condition was worsening. She was dying.He went directly to the receptionist. "Mrs. Clausen has a touch of a headache," he told the woman. "I think you should hold any calls until she's had a chance to rest."Back in his own office, he sat at his desk Realizing that his palms were soaked, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dried them, then got up and went out to the men's room.There he dashed cold water on his face, combed his hair, straightened his tie, and looked in the mirror. He always had been grateful that his appearance-dark blond hair, steel-gray eyes, and aristocratic nose-had been the product of the Layton genetic code.
