"How?" he asked.
"An over-dose of chloral. She often used to take it—and of course she would be very likely to want a sleeping-draught last night."
"Yes, yes, of course she would. Her nerves would be so much upset."
Their eyes met—Suzette's seemed puzzled.
"What do you think?" asked Grantley in a whisper.
"I really don't know. She would really have been quite likely to take too much. She would be impatient if it didn't act quickly, you know."
"Yes, yes, of course she would. Have you sent for a doctor?"
"Oh, yes, directly I found her—before I came to you. But I've done some nursing, and—and there's not the least——" She stopped suddenly, and was silent for several seconds. Then she said quietly and calmly: "There's not the least chance, Mr. Imason."
Grantley knew what word she had rejected in favour of "chance," and why the word had seemed inappropriate. He acknowledged the justice of the change with a mournful gesture of his hands.
"Well, we can never know whether it was accidental or not," he said, as he turned to leave the room.