It was not long before we were suddenly aware that there was another person in the room. We could hear whispers. The faithful little vocaphone even picked them up and shot them down to us.
"Is everything all right?" whispered one, a new voice which was somewhat familiar I thought, but disguised beyond recognition.
"Yes. She'll be out in a minute."
"Now, remember what I told you. If this thing works you get fifty dollars more. I'd better put this mask on—damn it!—the slit's torn. It'll do. I'll hide here as soon as we hear her. That's a pretty nice private ambulance you have down there. Did you tell the elevator boy that she had suddenly been taken ill? That's all fixed, then. I've got the stuff—amyl nitrite—she'll go off like a shot. But we'll have to work quick. It only keeps her under a few minutes. I can't wear this mask down and I'm afraid some one will recognize me. Oh, you brought a beard. Good. I'll give you the signal. There must be no noise. Yes, I saw the stretcher where you left it in the hall."
"All right, Doc," returned the first and unfamiliar voice.
It all happened so quickly that we were completely bowled over for the moment. Who was the man addressed as "Doc"? There was no time to find out, no time to do anything, apparently, so quickly had the plot been sprung.
I looked at Kennedy, aghast, not knowing what to do in this unexpected crisis.
A moment later we heard a voice, "I'm sorry to have had to keep you waiting, but what is it that I can do for you?"
"Good God!" exclaimed Kennedy. "It is Inez herself!"
It was altogether too late to get over there to warn her, perhaps even to rescue her. What could we do? If we could only shout for help. But what good would that do, around a corner and so far away?