Why he should take the trouble to inform her she had no idea. It wasn't exactly like him. Moreover, he continued to stand in the doorway, looking at her, as if there were something on his mind. She was screwing up her courage to tell him of her find when he spoke again, as an afterthought, in a casual manner.
"By the way, I suppose you've never come across that needle you mislaid?"
Now was the moment. She opened her lips to speak, then heard herself saying quietly:
"No, doctor, isn't it odd? I can only think it must have got thrown into the fire."
CHAPTER XXV
There was little sleep for her that night. The most serious problem she had ever had to face presented itself, demanding a speedy solution. What course ought she to pursue? Hours passed and she had not found the answer.
Here was the difficulty: if she confided her dreadful suspicion to some member of the family and it was proved to be correct, then a criminal investigation would follow and her own position would be unassailable. But if, on the other hand, it were found to be false—and it seemed far more likely that this should be the case—then her career as a nurse would be absolutely, irrevocably dished. To bring an unfounded accusation against the doctor one worked for was an unpardonable offence. No physician would think of employing her again. She might have the purest motives for her action, they would not help her one particle. Henceforward she would be branded as flighty, irrational, not to be depended upon. Her living would be taken away, but something even worse might happen. She stood the chance of landing herself in a libel action, she might indeed be accused of having the intent to blackmail. She knew one case of the kind—the woman in question had been utterly disgraced.
No, only too obviously she could not afford the risk of sharing her secret doubts, or at least not yet. It was not as if by any possible knowledge or means she could save the old man, who was now doomed, beyond the shadow of a doubt. His symptoms were already those of the last, fatal stage of the disease. It was too late to hope for any change, had been too late for at least two days. No, whatever she did could only be in the interests of justice, unless…
Suddenly she thought of Roget. For the past few days he had shown definite signs of typhoid, mild, it is true, but unmistakable. She recalled the fact that the father, too, had suffered from a light form of the disease in the beginning. Roger's case was extraordinarily similar, allowing for his being a younger, more vigorous man. Of course, she reflected, veering round, typhoid was rampant in and about Cannes; it was not strange that two members of a household should succumb—no, more than two in this case, for first of all there had been the housemaid, then, later, Lady Clifford, only she had staved it off. There might well be someone in the house who was an unconscious carrier of germs, like the famous "Typhoid Mary," in America, some years ago. No, it might all be perfectly natural, and yet … there remained the poisonous doubt in her mind. It was just possible there was something wrong. What in heaven's name ought she to do?
It was not till early morning that she reached a decision. There was a thing she could and would do, to-morrow, without waste of time. Having made up her mind upon this point, she drifted off into a light and troubled sleep, so unlike sleep indeed that she could hardly believe she had lost consciousness when sounds in the hall roused her. She slid out of bed and into her dressing-gown. It was four o'clock. She knew by instinct what had happened.