"You tell me."
Though it was a near thing. H.M. did manage to squeeze through the window. He flapped among the curtains and almost tore them down from their rods. He landed on the floor with a thud that shook the ceiling. But he did manage to get in. Trailing water and oilskin, he waddled across to the prone figure and bent over it.
"Concussion," he said, after examination. "And a bad one. Lord love a duck!"
"Never mind him," urged Courtney, not very sympathetically for Hubert. "Go upstairs. Mrs. Fane's been attacked again. The murderer gave her another dose of strychnine in a hypodermic, and Dr. Nithsdale says—"
There was more bumping behind him. First Masters, and then Inspector Agnew, pushed through the window and dropped inside. A mist arose as they shook themselves. Bright puddles of rainwater ran and glistened on the hardwood.
"Don't anybody ever answer the door at this place?" questioned an exasperated chief inspector. "We've been hammering at the front door for the past ten minutes. The bell won't work."
"Don't you hear what I'm saying?" shouted Courtney. "It's Mrs. Fane. Strychnine again! I've phoned the doctor. But somebody sneaked in while Ann was out of the room, and gave her a hypodermic full of it. She's in bad shape."
''Is she, now?" said H.M. tonelessly.
It took a little while for this to penetrate into Courtney's mind. It took a little while for him to understand the implications of H.M.'s casual, uninterested tone. And even then he did not understand it.
"H.M., are you crazy? Are you all crazy? Why don't you do something? She must have got the whole hypodermic full of it. When I pressed the handle of the thing, there was only a drop left. I touched it to my tongue, and it was bitter—"