"_Bonsoir, Madame! Bonsoir, Monsieur!_ I hope I have not kept you
long. I came as quickly as I could. This is the patient, I suppose?"
He spoke in excellent English, and had a brisk and businesslike air.
He was a small and dapper man with ginger hair cut _en brosse_, and
red-brown eyes behind thick glasses. Setting down his bag on a chair,
he cast a professional glance at the prostrate figure under the pink
quilt, then running his eyes over the room he discovered Dr. Sartorius.
At once a look of puzzled recognition, tinged with deference, came over
his sharp little face. He bowed stiffly.
"Ah, doctor, how do you do?" he greeted his colleague in a slightly
diffident tone. "Am I to understand that ... may I ask if I am
intruding, or..." and he broke off, obviously uncertain as to the
position of things.
Sartorius rose and stood stolidly beside his chair.
"Not at all, doctor," he replied coolly. "Mr. Clifford will no doubt
explain why you were sent for. There appears to be a good reason."
Expectantly the little man turned to Roger, who, seeing the necessity
of some explanation to satisfy him on a point of professional
etiquette, said quietly:
"This lady, doctor, is a nurse who has been employed in our family
until my father's death a few days ago. After the funeral she left the
house, then this evening she returned suddenly in a very strange and
excited state. A few minutes after she entered the room here she
became unconscious. The reason Dr. Sartorius does not attempt to do
anything for her is that when he did try she became much worse. It
seems that she has taken a marked antipathy to him, we don't know why."
The Frenchman raised his bushy red brows.
"Ah, ah?" he commented. "May I inquire if you had any knowledge of
this antipathy before she went away?"
"I had," replied Sartorius heavily. "I mentioned the fact to Lady
Clifford. I had begun to suspect at the last that she might be
suffering from some rather obscure mental derangement."
"I see, I see! I daresay you have come to no conclusion as to her
present state, doctor?"
"I have not had an adequate opportunity of judging."
"Yes, yes, I quite understand the difficulty you were placed in. Very
annoying, very annoying! With your permission, then, I will try to see
what it is all about."
During this polite interchange Roger had difficulty in restraining his
impatience. It seemed possible that Esther might perish while these
two medical men discussed the situation. He watched tensely while the
little doctor got out various instruments and bottles, changed his
thick pince-nez for a pair of spectacles with tortoiseshell rims
exactly matching his eyebrows, and finally proceeded with a maddening
deliberation to study the patient, listening at her heart, feeling her
pulse, turning back her eyelids. At last he raised a grave face.
"How long has this condition lasted?" he asked, frowning.
"About twenty minutes, I should say."
The Frenchman pursed his lips and shook his head slightly as he
proceeded with the examination. Roger grew more and more alarmed.
Thinking to facilitate matters, he pointed out the holes in the
coat-sleeve.
"What do you make of those, doctor?" he demanded.
The bristling brows rose in astonishment.
"Ah, ah?" their owner exclaimed, sliding the two sleeves deftly off the
shoulder and scrutinising the red dots on the skin, round which a
bruise was beginning to form. "_Tiens, tiens_, this begins to be more
clear. Doctor," he said, turning to Sartorius, "had you any suspicion
that this young woman was addicted to the use of a drug?"
Roger glanced searchingly at the man by the fireplace. The sallow face
showed no alteration whatever.
"I admit I did not come to that conclusion during the time she was
here," the doctor made answer, "but her conduct at times might have
suggested it. Those marks enlightened me."
In spite of his resolution to restrain himself, Roger took a step
forward angrily.
"Do you mean to insinuate that she gave herself those
injections--_through both sleeves_?" he burst out.
Sartorius turned slightly away without replying. Dr. Bousquet shrugged
his shoulders and removing his spectacles wiped them carefully on a
purple silk handkerchief.
"It would be unusual, monsieur, certainly, but not impossible. There
is no accounting for the vagaries of these victims. Whatever the case,
she is under the influence o£ morphia now. It appears to be morphia,"
he added cautiously.
"Then if she is," declared Roger, losing all control, "that man over
there is responsible for it. He gave her the last of those injections
not a quarter of an hour ago."
There is no describing the effect of this bombshell. There was shocked
silence, during which both Miss Clifford and the little doctor regarded
the speaker with a mixture of embarrassment and incredulous concern.
"Roger! My dear! Do you know what you are saying?" the old lady
whispered in pained remonstrance.
Chagrined that he had committed himself so incautiously, Roger turned
and stared down at Esther, biting his lip. Plainly this was not the
time for straightforward speech. Besides, he caught a glance of
sympathy mingled with scorn for himself exchanged between the two
physicians.
"Never mind how she got any of the injections," he amended hastily,
addressing Bousquet in a low voice; "all that concerns us now is how to
save her. It was unwise of me to speak as I did."
The doctor's silence and a touch of asperity in his manner conveyed a
definite reproof. Shaking his head dubiously, he put his spectacles
into their case and blew his nose on the purple handkerchief.
"Well, Mr. Clifford," he said at last, "the best thing we can do at the
moment is to get this young person undressed and into a bed. I can
then ascertain if there are other hypodermic needle marks on her, and
perhaps come to one or two other decisions about which I am doubtful.
Can this be arranged?"
"Certainly. I will give orders at once to have a room got ready for
her."
He rang the bell, then, returning, put a direct question to the
Frenchman.
"Tell me, doctor, do you consider her in danger?"
The little man glanced towards the inert figure doubtfully.
"It is difficult, extremely difficult, to say anything with certainty
until the effect of the drug has worn off. She appears to be suffering
from severe nervous exhaustion as well as from morphia, which
complicates matters. It also seems likely that she has gone without
food for some time. Her vitality is very low, very low
indeed--although I cannot say there appears to be anything organically
wrong with her heart."
Again Roger visualised the dreadful picture of the girl wandering, out
of her head, through the streets. It fitted in so aptly with this
suggestion of her being without food and in an exhausted state. It was
with an effort that he thrust aside the morbid idea to speak to
Chalmers.
"Miss Rowe's room is ready for her, sir," the butler replied quietly.
"I took the liberty of having it done, sir, thinking you'd want to put
her to bed. Shall I lend a hand to carry her in, sir?"
It was an easy matter to transfer Esther from the couch to her former
quarters. Roger remained in the hall within reach of the boudoir, and
spoke once more to Dr. Bousquet before returning to resume his
self-constituted guard of Sartorius.
"I think I ought to tell you, doctor, that before she became
unconscious she made a very startling statement. We cannot tell
whether there is any truth in what she said or not--but I may say that
a great deal depends on the establishment of her sanity. I suppose you
have no way of telling----?"
A pleasantly contemptuous smile hovered in the red-brown eyes behind
the thick glasses.
"Monsieur, persons who form the morphia habit become, as you are aware,
notoriously untruthful. They invent extraordinary stories, make
incredible--and often convincing--accusations. I do not of course know
anything about this young woman, but----" And he left the sentence
unfinished.
It was a diplomatic way of damning in advance any evidence Esther might
give. The man, on his own statement, knew nothing, had no prejudice
for or against. He was merely voicing a medical fact.
With a mind torn by fresh doubts Roger walked slowly back into the
boudoir. He could not help beginning to be afraid that he was acting
foolishly. The high-handed manner in which he had dealt with his
stepmother and Sartorius might yet land him in most unpleasant
difficulties. Obviously he had no right to restrain their movements,
and the fact that he had actually threatened Sartorius was sufficient
to bring down punishment upon him. Still, he knew in his heart that if
he had the thing to do over again he would behave in much the same way.
Certainly he felt sure that whether they were malefactors or completely
innocent, both Thérèse and the doctor had acted in a manner to arouse
suspicion.
As he entered the room, from the opposite door Aline approached him.
Her black gimlet eyes surveyed him with a baleful glare as with a
distinct touch of irony she inquired if it were permitted that she
should bring Madame something to eat.
"Naturally; bring Madame whatever she requires," he replied
indifferently.
With a toss of the head she departed, hostility in every inch of her
stiff body.
Finding it a disagreeable matter to remain in the same room with the
phlegmatic figure still seated in the _bergère_ by the fire, Roger
crossed to one of the French windows, and opening the casement stepped
outside on the narrow balcony. There was a misty drizzle of rain which
cooled his burning face, the air was mild enough, but saturated with
moisture. The leaves of the trees glistened with heavy drops. Along
the balcony to the right showed the light from Thérèse's room in a bar
across the wet stone. Her curtains had not been drawn, and for a few
seconds he could see her silhouette framed in the window.... What was
she thinking? what was going on in that brain, which he now felt he had
never understood? Was it possible she was guilty of the cold-blooded
act Esther had accused her of? His mind could not yet take in the
enormity of it, the thought was too staggering. It scarcely seemed
credible that so ethereal, so delicate an exterior could hide the
consciousness of crime. It was far easier to believe there was some
hideous mistake about it all, that Esther, if not deranged, had been
misled by appearances.... What appearances? What could have given her
this idea? He resolved to question Chalmers at once, to find out what
he knew. Esther had certainly told the old man something which had
profoundly impressed him, that much was evident.
He found Chalmers in the hall, on his way downstairs. Motioning him to
approach, Roger spoke to him in a voice cautiously subdued.
"Let me hear, Chalmers, exactly what Miss Rowe said to you when you let
her in. What did you think of her--how did she strike you?"
"You saw for yourself what she looked like, sir," replied the old man
quietly, yet with an undercurrent of excitement that was not lost on
Roger. "I almost took her for a ghost. She fell into the hall when I
opened the door, hardly able to stand, she was, sir. I put out my hand
to steady her. 'Lord, miss,' I said, 'where have you come from?' I
said. She gave me a sort of wild look, sir, then she says,
half-choking like, 'Chalmers, where's Mr. Roger? Has the doctor
bandaged his hand yet?'"
"Did she ask you that straight off?" demanded Roger, frowning in deep
thought.
"Yes, sir, she did. I believed as you did that she was quite off her
head. I told her you were in this room with Miss Clifford, and that I
thought the doctor was with you, though I wasn't sure. She went as
white as a sheet, sir; I was afraid she was going to drop down, but she
didn't. She took another sort of spurt, as you may say, and was up
those steps so fast she left me behind. I heard her say, 'He's trying
to kill him; he's going to give him lock-jaw, and everybody'll believe
it's an accident.'"
"Lock-jaw!"
Complete bewilderment was in Roger's face as he repeated the word in a
whisper.
"Yes, sir, I was as astonished as you. It seemed as though she must be
raving, but then when she said..."
He was interrupted by a sudden peal at the doorbell, loud and long,
supplemented by violent blows of the brass knocker. Both men jumped at
the sound, then exchanged glances of puzzled apprehension. Who at this
particular moment was in such a hurry to enter?
"Beg pardon, sir, I'd better see who that is, I expect."
"Yes, yes, Chalmers, you can finish telling me afterwards."
Revolving in his mind the astounding information he had just received,
Roger reëntered the sitting-room. The ghastly audacity of the idea
that Sartorius had a moment ago been on the very point of introducing
the germs of lock-jaw--tetanus to give it its proper name--into the
wound on his hand seemed on the face of it beyond the bounds of
possibility. Why, what man would dare to do such a thing? The risk of
it! ... Yet was there so great a risk? Hadn't the doctor repeatedly
warned him of the danger he was running? Why, if there was nothing in
it, did he examine him so carefully just now, paying special attention
to his face and jaw? It had certainly given the impression that he
suspected the beginning of certain tell-tale symptoms. Had he done it
in order that later the eye-witnesses could recall every detail and
make it appear like a purely accidental seizure? Then that bit of
white something which Sartorius had dropped into the fire. It might
have been of no importance, yet again...
He looked curiously at the ragged cut on his thumb and barely repressed
a shudder. If such a thing was true, by what a narrow margin had he
escaped a horrible death.... Across the room the object of his
suspicions continued to sit calmly figuring in a notebook, never
glancing around. His attitude was a declaration of the fact that the
young man behind him was an excitable firebrand, whose behaviour was
scarcely worth troubling about. Let him alone, he will come to his
senses, that broad, imperturbable back seemed to say....
Suddenly a revulsion swept over Roger. He felt a bit of an ass. Of
course there could be no truth in this mad story, such things didn't
happen. Though of course if it was entirely fiction, it put Esther in
a queer light, however you looked at it. Either it was the result of
those "confusional attacks" the doctor had hinted at, or she was, as
both doctors now implied, a victim of morphia-mania.... Unthinkable!
Esther!
What was this noise outside the door? Confused voices reached him
speaking in French, together with the heavy tread of several men, who
apparently were tramping up the stairs. The following instant Chalmers
threw open the door, his face a study.
"The police, sir," he announced.
Roger sprang to his feet.