For a full second all the onlookers merely gazed, completely
dumbfounded. Miss Clifford seemed unable to make a move, the doctor
stood rooted to the spot by the table, his face expressionless, his
fingers holding the long strip of gauze, which fluttered in the draught
from the open door. The first to stir was Roger, who knelt beside the
sobbing girl, and putting his arms around her body tried to lift her a
little. The startling denunciation she had given voice to had hardly
registered upon his brain, meaning to him only a confirmation of the
deplorable truth which Sartorius had foreseen. She was, almost without
doubt, unhinged: her whole appearance and manner went to prove it. In
an agony of mind Roger took in the details of her sodden clothing, her
wet, tangled hair, her dreadful pallor. His imagination flashed a
swift vision of the poor girl wandering alone in the streets of Cannes
for two days and nights. What was this terrible idea that obsessed
her? how had she come by it? He spoke to her as to a child, with
extreme gentleness.
"Esther, you poor little thing, what on earth is this all about? Try
to tell me where you've been since you left here."
Her eyes, which were falling shut from exhaustion, tried to open for a
moment. She made an effort to speak, but could not manage it,
convulsive sobs still shaking her like a storm. The doctor and Miss
Clifford had now come up and were bending over her.
"Oh, oh, so he was right, after all!" the old lady murmured in deep
pity and consternation. "Poor girl; what a dreadful condition! What
on earth can we do for her?"
Less moved than the others Sartorius motioned to Roger with his head,
at the same time putting a firm hand on Esther's trembling shoulder.
"I will attend to her, Mr. Clifford, leave her to me. I have dealt
with these cases often. It is a mistake to sympathise too much; what
they are playing for is sympathy. Just help me to get her to that
sofa."
Right or wrong the cold-bloodedness of his attitude repelled Roger
strongly. He could not believe that Esther was playing for sympathy,
but before he was able to voice any objection a fresh alarm came from
his half-fainting charge. As though galvanised into life by the
doctor's touch, she uttered a shriek and cowered away from him.
"No! No! Not again! If he does that again I'm finished!"
The note of abject terror in the appeal struck a chill to Roger's
heart. Whatever this delusion was, it had reduced Esther to a serious
state. Trembling violently she clung to him, her face buried in his
neck. Miss Clifford, who had hastened to arrange the cushions on the
high-backed canapé that was set against the wall at the right of the
room, looked on nonplussed, then after a moment approached and spoke
soothingly.
"My dear, my dear, it's quite all right, the doctor won't hurt you.
There's nothing to be afraid of."
"But there is, there is!" Roger heard a low whisper between chattering
teeth. "For God's sake protect me, don't let him come near me!"
Sartorius straightened up slowly and shook his head in a disparaging
fashion.
"I was afraid of this," he commented coldly. "It is going to be a
little difficult to deal with her, unless----"
"Leave her to me, doctor," Roger said in a low tone. "It's no good
exciting her."
He picked her up and carried her to the canapé, where very gently he
laid her down. Even in that disturbed moment the touch of her damp
curls and the faint odour of her skin moved him strangely. She might
be demented, but it was not easy for him to forget that she was Esther.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered in her ear. "I promise you he sha'n't
come near you."
She sank back with a quivering sigh; only the faintest pressure of her
hand on his showed him she understood. He looked about with the idea
of discovering some cover to put over her, for she seemed on the verge
of a chill. As he did so he discovered Thérèse standing motionless in
her doorway, a silent spectator. His eyes caught hers, and the
expression on her face made him stare fixedly at her. Why was she
gazing in that way at him and at Esther? He felt he had caught
something in her eyes which she had not meant to be seen. What was it?
It looked like fear--sudden, abject fear. Why were her eyes widened in
that fashion? He found himself examining her curiously....
All at once an impossible idea shot across his brain, searing it like a
red-hot iron. Could there, after all, be some underlying grain of
truth in that wild accusation Esther had uttered a moment ago? At
least some deceptive semblance of fact in it? It was nonsense, of
course, to consider such a thing, yet... The expression in the grey
eyes altered completely, the look he had seen was gone. Lady Clifford
came forward with an exclamation of concern.
"_Mon Dieu_, what is all this? How did that poor creature get here,
and in such a state? Why, look--her clothes are soaking! She must
have been in the rain for hours! And blood here on her face!"
The old lady whispered an explanation.
"She rushed in here a moment ago, Thérèse, you must have heard her.
She seems so queer and upset, and has been saying the wildest things!
And, isn't it odd, she refuses to allow the doctor to come near her at
all!"
"Does she? Very odd, indeed!"
With another glance at the canapé, Lady Clifford turned towards the
doctor.
"What do you think one ought to do, doctor?" she inquired. "She can't
stay here, naturally. Don't you think one should try to get her into
some really safe place, where she could be properly looked after?"
Something a little tense and sharp in the tone riveted Roger's
attention. With his arm still about Esther he turned his head and
listened. He heard the heavy tones of Sartorius make answer evenly,
without emotion of any kind:
"She is still raving; we must simply let her be for the moment till she
quiets down. I will see what can be done. There is a mental home near
Grasse where I believe they would take her; I can telephone and find
out. They would keep her under observation until we can get in touch
with her people."
"Oh, doctor, do you really think that will be necessary?" asked Miss
Clifford regretfully.
She had just come out of Thérèse's room bringing a rose taffeta quilt
to throw over the shivering girl. Roger made an impatient sign to the
others to be careful what they said, but to his relief Esther appeared
not to hear. He himself was peculiarly upset by the doctor's
matter-of-fact reference to the mental home, and on the spot he
resolved firmly to defeat any arrangements that might be made for
placing the girl where she could be kept "under observation." Yet what
ought one to do? She was clearly in need of medical attention. She
seemed now to be delirious, babbling incoherently, repeating in an
undertone and in that strange hoarse voice fragments of words and
phrases that in spite of their wildness arrested his attention.
Listening closely to her he thought that all the happenings of the past
two months of her life had become interwoven into the fabric of her
delusion. Such words as "typhoid," "toxin," "hypodermic," "bandage,"
recurred again and again, then "culture"--she was back in the doctor's
laboratory now, without doubt, watching his experiments. Suddenly a
name caught his ear, he bent closer. What was this she was saying
about Holliday? Holliday? How did he come into it? A low, frightened
whisper followed; he had to strain his ears to catch it: "_She wanted
the money now, you know, so she could keep him with her!_"
He stared at the girl searchingly. Her eyes were closed, she had the
look of complete exhaustion. He could almost not believe she had
spoken those significant words. Did she know what she was saying? Was
it mere accident that her last sentence had sounded so astonishingly
rational?
Still keeping one arm beneath her shoulders he once more looked around
and took a cautious survey of the other end of the room. Thérèse was
no longer to be seen; she must have slipped out, but his aunt was
saying something in an anxious undertone to the doctor, who at that
moment had moved nearer the fireplace. Watching narrowly Roger noticed
the big man put out his hand towards the blazing logs, then saw a small
scrap of something flimsy and white--it might have been paper, or
perhaps a tiny piece of the medical gauze he had been using--flutter
into the flames. The gesture was so negligent that in the ordinary way
one would not have given it a second thought, yet now, because of
Esther's unintelligible reference to a bandage, it awoke in Roger a
vague uneasiness. Again the incredible suspicion crossed his mind; he
caught himself wondering if just possibly there were more in this than
met the eye.
Studying the white, bloodstained face lying against the blue cushion,
he asked himself if Esther did really possess some terrible knowledge
of which he was completely ignorant. Could her jumbled utterances be
linked together into any sort of meaning? As if conscious of his
unspoken question she stirred restlessly, muttering words he could not
catch, then turned a little away from him on to her right side. As she
did so his gaze fell upon her left coat sleeve. There was a spot near
the shoulder, no bigger than a half-crown, where the material was oddly
frayed and roughened. He examined it closely, then as gently as
possible unfastened the coat and slipped it down from the shoulder....
What was this? The heavy crêpe-de-Chine blouse underneath, in the spot
that corresponded, was punctured with tiny, round holes, a little
constellation, thickly grouped. What did it mean? He laid his finger
on the spot, but at the touch she recoiled from him with a shudder that
shook her from head to foot.
"No, no, not again!" she cried out in her former accents of terror.
He soothed her, gripped by a sudden fear.
"Esther, darling, it's only me, Roger. I won't hurt you," he whispered
softly. "Listen to me, dear. I want to know what these marks are on
your arm. Try to tell me. Try to tell me where you have spent these
past two days."
She opened her lips and moistened them painfully; then as he thought
she was going to speak he saw her eyes fix themselves upon a spot above
his shoulder, while her whole face became contorted with fright.
Glancing behind him he saw that the doctor had quietly come near them
again and was standing, a silent, bulky figure, at the foot of the
canapé. Filled with annoyance Roger motioned to him to withdraw from
the girl's sight, but already it was too late. With a tremor more
violent than those preceding she buried her face in the cushion, then
lay completely still, so still that Roger became seriously alarmed.
"Here, will someone fetch some brandy?" he demanded abruptly, looking
around. "She's fainted. There's a bottle in the cupboard in my
bathroom."
The voice of Chalmers answered quickly from the door-way, "Yes, sir,
I'll get it, sir."
Anxiously Roger fell to chafing the girl's cold hands then became
unpleasantly aware that Sartorius was regarding him with a faintly
sardonic expression on his sallow face.
"I suppose you have realised what those marks mean," the doctor said
with a slight movement of his head towards the punctured sleeve.
"Well, what do they mean?" returned Roger aggressively.
"Simply what I ought to have guessed all along--that the unfortunate
woman is the victim of a drug-habit."
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Roger to swallow his
rage at what seemed to him an insulting suggestion. Drug-victim!
Esther! What an absurdity! Besides, would anyone give herself
injections through her sleeves? Preposterous! ... He continued to
slap the limp hands. Why did she show no sign of reviving? It seemed
to him that her heart scarcely beat at all. The awful idea came to him
that she might be dead from shock and weakness.... Why was Chalmers so
long over getting the brandy? Becoming desperate with impatience he
decided to go himself; perhaps the old man could not find the bottle.
"Dido," he said as his aunt approached with smelling-salts in her hand,
"stay with her, don't leave her, do what you can. I'll not be gone a
minute."
As the old lady took his place he quickly ran out and along the hall to
his room. Reaching the open door he heard a curious sound which came
from the lighted bathroom beyond. What was it? It seemed like
strained and heavy breathing; then he caught muttered, angry words in
French, an expletive that reeked of the gutter. What on earth did it
mean? He strove to the door, then halted on the threshold, completely
petrified. Speech deserted him, he could only stare, hardly able to
credit what he saw.
Facing him, her back against the wall, was Thérèse, struggling with
every ounce of strength she possessed to escape from a man who gripped
her firmly by the wrists. Transformed into a tigress, her cheeks
burning with passion, she writhed and pushed and panted in her efforts
to free herself. Her captor's breath came hard; he was barely more
than a match for her, yet he never relaxed his hold.
"Thérèse! What is the meaning of this?"
The man, whom he now saw to be old and grey-haired, turned and looked
over his spare shoulder. It was Chalmers.