Her first impulse was to fly, her second, more merciful, was to run
to his side, and, kneeling down, loosen his collar. Was he dead? There
was no sign of life or sound of breath. The hands, upraised, as though
to clutch an invisible enemy, were stiff and rigid.
She flew out of the door and called the maid.
“Telephone for a doctor, please. Braime is ill,” she said
breathlessly, and rushed up the stairs.
Lady Moron was deep in conversation with her visitor, but at the sight
of the girl she came hurriedly across the room.
“What is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“It’s Braime,” said Lois breathlessly. “I think he’s dead!”
The countess followed her down the stairs at a pace which Lois did not
think was possible for so heavy a woman. For a moment she stood in the
doorway, surveying the silent man.
“This is not for you to see,” she said gently, and, pushing the girl
back into the passage, closed the door.
Presently she came out.
“I’m afraid he’s dead. Tell me what happened. Or first ring through to
the Limbo Club for Dr. Tappatt.”
Lois told her that she had already given an order for a doctor to be
called, and her instructions were fulfilled more efficiently than she
had supposed. For Jean had rung the Virginia Hospital, which is within
a hundred yards of Chester Square, and even while they were talking in
the passage there came the clang of an ambulance bell, and the footman
hurried to open the door.
The youthful house surgeon who had accompanied the ambulance made a
brief examination of the prostrate figure and was obviously puzzled.
“Was this man subject to fits?” he asked.
“I am not aware that he was. He has been quite well since he has been
in my employ,” said Lady Moron.
Lois, who had been attracted to the room, was looking down fearfully
at the still figure.
“There is no wound of any kind that I can see,” said the doctor,
peering through his spectacles. “I will have the attendants in and
we’ll rush him to the hospital.”
He went back to the hall and signalled for his assistants, and a
stretcher, withdrawn from the ambulance, was brought into the library.
And then, as they were about to lift the man on to the canvas, there
came the sound of running footsteps in the hall and a man burst
violently into the room. He was hot and hatless and stood breathing
heavily in the doorway, looking from one to another. Presently his
gaze fell upon Lois.
“Thank God!” he said shakily.
Then, with two strides, he was by the side of the prostrate figure.
“Are you a doctor?” began Lady Moron.
“My name is Michael Dorn--a name probably unknown to your ladyship,”
said Dorn brusquely.
His keen eyes searched the room. Rising, he lifted a china bowl filled
with roses, swept the flowers on to the floor, and dashed the water
into the man’s face. Ripping off the collar of the man he knelt over
Braime’s head and drew up the stiff arms, pressing them back again to
the body. Lois watched him in bewilderment. He was applying the
restorative methods which are used for people who are partially
drowned.
“Are you a doctor?” asked the young surgeon, a little irritably.
“No,” said Michael, without ceasing his work.
“May I ask what you think you’re doing with this man?”
“Saving his life,” was the brief reply.
Lady Moron turned at that moment. She had heard the voice of her son
in the hall, and, sweeping out of the room, she intercepted him.
“What do you want, Selwyn?” she asked coldly.
“Something’s happened in the library. They say old Braime’s got a fit
or something--thought I might be useful.”
“Go back to your study, please, Selwyn,” said her ladyship. “I will
not have you excited over these matters.”
“But dash it all----” began his lordship, but the look in his mother’s
eyes silenced him, and he grumbled his way back to his den.
The countess waited until he was out of sight, and then came back to
the little party that was watching Michael Dorn and his seemingly
futile efforts. A few minutes passed, and then:
“I really think this man should be taken to the hospital,
Mr.--er--Dorn.”
Lady Moron’s visitor had by now joined the group. Chesney Praye had
witnessed the arrival of the detective and had thought it wise not to
offer his advice. But now, morally strengthened by the presence of the
countess, he added his voice to the argument.
“You’re probably killing that man, Dorn. Let him go to the hospital,
where he’ll be properly attended to.”
Michael made no reply. The perspiration was pouring down his face; he
stopped only to strip off his coat before he resumed his work.
“I hope you’re a better doctor than you are a detective,” said
Chesney, nettled by Dorn’s attitude.
“In the present case, I am as good a doctor as you are an embezzler,”
said Dorn, without turning his head. “And, in any circumstances, I am
a better detective than you are a crook. He’s reviving.”
To Lois’ amazement, Braime’s eyelids were flickering. She saw the
slow, unaided movement of his chest.
“I think he’ll do now,” said Dorn, getting up and wiping his forehead.
“Are you a detective?” It was the doctor who asked the question.
“Sort of a one,” said Michael with a smile. “I think you’d better get
him into hospital as soon as you can, doctor. Please forgive me for
butting in, but I have had a case like this before.”
“What is it?” demanded the puzzled medico, as the butler was lifted on
to the stretcher and carried from the room. “I thought it was a stroke
of some kind.”
“It was a stroke of a pretty bad kind,” said Michael grimly.
He did not attempt to follow the ambulance party, but, putting on his
coat, he strolled round the room on what appeared to be a tour of
inspection. He examined the ceiling, the floor, and ran his eye over
the library table.
“He fell six feet from the table, didn’t he?” he mused. He pointed to
the patch of water that had discoloured the carpet. “Do you mind
telling me where his feet were? He had been moved when I came in.”
“Lady Moron would prefer to discuss that matter with the police when
they arrive,” snapped Chesney Praye. “You’ve no right whatever to be
here, you know that, Dorn.”
“Will somebody tell me where his feet were?”
It was Lois who pointed.
“He was lying across the room.”
“Of course--yes.” The puzzled Dorn stroked his chin. “You weren’t here
when it happened, I suppose, Miss Reddle?”
“I forbid you to answer any questions,” said the countess in her most
ponderous manner. “And I completely agree with Mr. Praye that this is
not a matter for outsiders. Do you suggest the man was assaulted?”
“I suggest nothing,” said Dorn, and again his eyes sought Lois
Reddle’s. “You have quite a lot of accidents in this house, don’t you,
Miss Reddle?” he asked pleasantly. “If I were you, I think I’d go back
to Charlotte Street; you’ll be safer. When I saw the ambulance at the
door I must confess that I nearly died of heart failure. I thought you
were the interesting subject.”
Her ladyship walked to the door and opened it a little wider.
“Will you please go, Mr. Dorn? Your presence is unwelcome, and your
suggestion that any person in this house is in the slightest danger is
most offensive to me”--she looked at Praye--“and to my friend.”
“Then your ladyship should change your friend,” said Dorn
good-naturedly, “and, lest you should think that the fine feelings of
Mr. Chesney Praye are lacerated by my suggestion, I will relieve your
mind. There are only two things that annoy Chesney, and they are to
lose money he has and to be thwarted in any attempt to get money which
doesn’t belong to him. Can I speak with you alone, Miss Reddle?”
“I forbid----” began the countess.
“May I?”
Lois hesitated, nodded, and preceded him from the room.
It was in the hall, deserted even by the footman, that he spoke his
mind.
“I confess I didn’t expect the succession of accidents which have
followed one another at such close intervals since you have been in
this house,” he said. “I only consented to your coming here at all
because I thought that----”
“_You_ consented?” Her eyes opened wide. She flushed with sudden
anger. “Does it occur to you, Mr. Dorn, that I do not require your
consent?”
“I’m sorry.” He was humility itself. “I am on the wrong track, but my
nerves are a little jangled. What I wanted to say was that I ought to
have known, after you received those poisoned chocolates----”
She went pale.
“Poisoned?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“Of course they were poisoned. Hydrocyanic acid. Why did you think I
came into your room that night to get them away? I came with my heart
in my mouth as I did a few minutes ago, expecting to find you dead.”
“Why are you so--so interested in me?” she asked, but he evaded the
question.
“Will you leave this house to-day and go back to Charlotte Street?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t until to-morrow. I’ve promised Lady Moron that I would stay
with her until then, and I’m sure, Mr. Dorn, that you’re mistaken. Who
would send me poisoned chocolates?”
“Who would try to run you down with a car?” he countered. “Look at
this.” He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and took out a little
roll of cloth. “Do you recognise this stuff?”
Her mouth opened in astonishment.
“Why, that is a piece of my skirt that was cut out when the car----”
“Exactly, and I found it hanging on the car. The people who garaged it
were in such a hurry that they didn’t attempt to examine or to clean
the machine.”
“But who--who is this enemy of mine?” she asked in a low voice.
He shook his head.
“Some day I will tell you his name. I think I have already told you
too much, and made myself just a little bit too conspicuous. My only
hope is that the knowledge that I am around will scare them. You can’t
leave to-night?”
“No, it is impossible,” she said.
He nodded.
“All right.” He glanced past her to Lady Moron, who was standing at
the door of the library, deeply engaged in conversation with Chesney
Praye. Presently he caught the eye of the red-faced man. “I want you,
Praye.”
He walked out of the house, waiting on the sidewalk for Chesney to
join him.
“Now see here, Dorn----” began the other loudly.
“Lower your voice. I am not deaf. And, anyway, there’s no call for you
to talk at all. Understand that. I’ve been to the India Office this
morning, and sounded the Secretary. There will be no difficulty in
getting a warrant for you in connection with that Delhi business if I
take a little trouble. Let fact Number One sink into your mind. The
second is this; if any harm comes to this girl Reddle--and I can trace
your strong right hand in the matter--I’ll follow you through nine
kinds of hell and catch you. Absorb that.” And with a nod, he turned
and walked away, leaving the man speechless with rage and fear.