They were crowded in the doorway, peering, like a cluster of people in a Hogarth sketch.
"You mean she hasn't had anything at all?"
"Nothing," responded H.M., "except the chloral in her sleeping-tablets. Oh, my eye, what a fine lot of scare-mongers you are. Now see here. What's all this rumpus about a burglar? We went down to Adams's place, and he was all hoppin' about sending you—" he blinked at Courtney—"out with a rifle to pot a burglar. What burglar?"
Mrs. Propper, who wore a lace cap over her curlpapers, drew the layers of dressing gowns and shawls and comforters closer round her.
"As the Lord is my judge," she declared with passion, "there was a burglar. Just you ask Daisy." "How'd he get in?" "Through the winder." "What winder?" "I'll show you."
"That's more like it. We may as well let this gal sleep."
H.M. switched off the bedside lamp. He came out of the room, shooing them before him, into the bright light of the hall. And they met a frightened-looking Frank Sharpless, in a sodden cap and rubber raincoat, coming up the stairs at long strides.
"Come on in," sneered H.M., making an expansive but malignant gesture. "The more the merrier. Keep the party goin'. I say, son: why don't you move your bed in and live here?"
It would not be a literal fact to say that Mrs. Propper stiffened audibly, but such was the general effect.
"I had to see Vicky," breathed Sharpless, wiping the moisture from his face. "Is she all right?"