And they did. The launch when hailed stopped instantly.
“Who is it?” called Clark's breezy voice, in his bad French. “Anything wrong? Can we help?”
The police cutter closed up. In the light of its electric lamps the face talking to them changed suddenly, the jaw slackened, the eyes darted furtively from the police-boat to the pleasure craft about, who were watching the meeting with curiosity.
“It's all right, Mr. Clark,” the Chief Inspector answered civilly as he mounted the ladder swiftly, followed by Carter and Watts. “Only Miss West is most urgently wanted, and we heard that she had gone out with you in the swiftest launch in Nice, so I borrowed a police-cutter.” He had opened the door of the little cabin as he spoke. Carter would have pushed in first if the other's sheer bulk had not prevented it. As for Watts, a glance from Pointer made him wait outside.
In the unusually large and airy cabin sat the three other occupants of the villa and Christine. The women lay back in their chairs with closed eyes as though asleep; only Major Vaughan blinked evilly at them.
“Christine!” Carter fell on his knees beside her. “Christine!” He shook her gently. “She's unconscious. Give me some brandy—some coffee.” His gaze swept the table doubtfully.
Pointer said something over the rail, and a man stepped up on to the deck.
“Here is the surgeon. He'll soon tell us if anything serious is the matter.”
The doctor rolled up Christine's eyelid, felt her pulse, and poured her out some brandy from his flask. He looked at a coffee-tray on the table, smelt the coffee, tasted it, and added his brandy to a cup of the steaming beverage. “She'll be all right with as much of that as you can get her to drink.”
He bent over the other two women. “Same here. Opium den, eh?” He whispered to Pointer, who nodded.