"I want you to come here. The door of my room is unlocked." The low voice grew even fainter. "I—I am very ill," said Miss Ocky.
XXIII: The Darkest Hour
Everything else faded from his mind at the emergency suggested by her last words.
He was with her in five seconds. In that time she had retreated from the balcony and was lying back in a deep, upholstered armchair near the open window, a soft woolen lap-robe over her knees and tucked about her feet. He leaned over her anxiously.
"You are ill? What is it?" he questioned her swiftly. "Let me go for the doctor!"
"No—please! It isn't a case for a doctor—yet. I must talk to you first." There was a straight-backed chair close by, as though she had placed it there for him, and she waved him to it. She did not continue until he had reluctantly seated himself on its edge, bending forward to watch her face in the dim light from a single lamp across the room. "I—there is something I must tell you. Do you remember saying one evening that a detective must occasionally be a father-confessor as well as—"
"Stop!" He interrupted her, aghast, his tortured nerves rebelling against this unexpected, fresh flagellation. "I want no confession from you—I won't listen—!"
"Please! You must let me have my way in this; I have a good reason for insisting on that." Her voice was low, quiet and determined. "I want to tell you that your search is ended. It was I who—"
"Don't say it!" he broke in hoarsely. "I know it already!"