She had stripped off her gloves and was clasping and unclasping her hands.
"Yes, I—I don't feel quite so satisfied about him as I did. I want to ask you some questions."
While she was speaking, the doctor, having signed to Esther to remain, had opened a drawer and was taking out several small bottles which he examined one after the other.
"Miss Rowe," he said, "all these are empty. On the top shelf in the oak cupboard in the laboratory you will find a full one. Bring it to me, please."
He extended an empty bottle for her to see the label.
"Yes, doctor, I won't be a minute," Esther replied, and hastened out, closing the door behind her.
She ran up the two flights of stairs without stopping to take breath, and looked into the Normandy armoire, but neither on the top shelf nor any of the others could she find what she wanted. She went over the contents of the cupboard a second time to make sure, examining the labels of various drugs, chemicals, serums, cultures. What was this new bottle? Tetanus—horrible! She gave a slight shudder, realising that the stuff in that bottle was enough to give lockjaw to half the inhabitants in Cannes. No, the doctor was mistaken, the mixture she sought was not here.
Rather more slowly than she had come up, she retraced her steps to the bottom floor. At the last landing she stopped, listening acutely.
"Non, non, je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas le faire!"
It was the Frenchwoman's voice, high-pitched, emotional, the protest wrung from her as if in agony. What was she saying? A rapid stream of French followed—Esther could not catch a word of it—then at the end a phrase or two that was intelligible.