She pronounced the phrase in the tone of a person who had learnt it by heart, and expected us to understand it better than she did herself. Miss Neobard’s gall overflowed at the sound.
“He called himself that to begin with,” she put in sharply. “Now it is a psychical analyst. Women come and tell him their secrets as if he were a priest.”
A quiver in the eyelashes told me that this was the information my chief had been expecting to receive. But his tone showed no animation when he spoke.
“In that case I dare say Miss Neobard may be right about the drugs. However, I must ask you to be good enough to let me have Dr. Weathered’s keys.”
The mother was evidently divided between fear of us and fear of her daughter to whom she appealed with another helpless look.
“By what right do you ask for them, Sir Frank? My mother is not entitled to give up her husband’s keys without his consent. He may be back at any moment—and then you can ask him.”
At last it was necessary to speak out. The girl’s position was perfectly right if she was ignorant of her step-father’s fate.
“I am deeply sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Tarleton said to the widow. “I’m afraid you must prepare yourself to hear the worst.” He paused for a moment. The ready tears that began to stream from the poor woman’s eyes showed that she had not been altogether unprepared, and the swift flash of silent exultation in her daughter’s told plainly who it was that had prepared her. I was pleased to see her throw a caressing arm round her mother’s neck before she spoke again.
“You mean that Dr. Weathered is dead?”
“A body has been found on certain premises in Chelsea which there is reason to fear is his. It is part of our business here to find someone to come round and identify him.”