"Vicky, what have the police been saying to you?"
"Nothing. That is — nothing. They haven't upset me, if that's what you mean. They were terribly nice, really. And Sir Henry Merrivale lives up to all I'd ever heard."
Ann walked round the bed and half leaned, half sat on the edge of the dressing table. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes troubled.
"Vicky, I–I hadn't meant to ask you. Even when I was up here before, I've kept and kept myself from asking you. But how much do you remember?"
There was a silence.
"Not very much. I remember Dr. Rich talking to me, and that coin shining. The next thing I distinctly remember is waking up on the bed here, and feeling horribly tired and shaky, with Frank's arm round me.
"I said, 'For heaven's Bake, don't; suppose Arthur should see?' Then he had to tell me."
"Stop, Vicky! That's enough!"
"No. It's all right. I don't mind. But in between, you see, it's all darkness and noises. I'll tell you what it's like. Did you ever go on a binge? And have too much to drink? And then wake up again next morning, without an earthly notion of what you'd been doing; and feeling ghastly and thinking of all the dreadful things you might have done?"
Ann nodded guiltily.