"I will tell you." The woman's voice was eager, importunate. "In January, when we were in Paris, he went to see Hamilton, his English solicitor. I thought nothing of it at the time, but a few days ago something he said made me think—made me afraid—— I don't know what he may have done. He is capable of anything, everything! I tell you, I am terrified!"
Esther, by the bathroom window, nodded to herself with satisfaction at the confirmation of her theory. So it had been the will Lady Clifford was trying to see! Matters were clearing up. She heard Sartorius say sceptically:
"Don't be a fool! Go back to your room; this is neither the time nor the place for these conferences. I have told you that before."
There was a faint murmured protest, then again the doctor's voice, heavy and intolerant:
"Good God, woman, what possible difference can he make, or anyone else, for that matter? You appear to overlook the fact that all is being done for your husband that can be done. There is not the slightest cause for alarm."
Another murmur, longer than before, then in a slightly modified tone, though still dictatorial:
"I see no reason why you shouldn't sleep, but if you insist I will give you something…. Here, one powder, not more, or I'll not be answerable for the consequences…. And remember, don't come here again. If you want me, send your maid for me. Good-night."
There was the faint sound of the door dosing, then silence. Esther shut the window cautiously, so that her neighbour might not suspect he had been overheard.
Exactly why she minded his knowing was not clear to her. There had certainly been nothing wrong in the conversation. It was the doctor's manner towards his employer that was strange, that was all. She found herself puzzling about it after she was in bed. Her brain was very active; she could not compose herself to sleep, though when she tried to analyse her state of mind there seemed little to cause her vague discomfort. She knew that many women made confidants of their medical men; there was nothing surprising in Lady Clifford's unburdening herself to Sartorius on the subject of her husband's will. The overbearing familiarity with which the doctor treated her was harder to understand, yet even there it was difficult to say there was anything abnormal. It merely suggested that these two had known each other a long time, had not, indeed, the formal relation of physician and patient. Whatever the case, there was nothing one could definitely say was wrong, yet…
"I don't in the least know why," she said to herself as she lay in bed, "but I've got a feeling there is something queer going on in this house—something—something underhand. There! I've said it."