"Frank," Courtney began, "in the name of—!" "Sh-h!"
"Yes, but what's going on here? What did she do? If she's fainted, why not slosh some water on her and bring her round?"
Sharpless told him. A clock ticked on the table beside the bed; a bedside lamp, its shade of some pinkish glassy material over a mirror base, shed calm light on Vicky Fane's emotionless face; and a faint breeze stirred in the trees of the front lawn, moving the curtains. Sharpless neglected no detail of the story, while his companion stared.
"Look here, Frank, are you all mad?"
"No."
"You all swear none of you could have exchanged the real dagger for the rubber one?" "That's right."
"And yet you also know nobody could have come in from outside to do it!"
"Abo right. I proved it myself."
"Then," declared Courtney, "all I can say is you'd better begin to unprove it, and ruddy quick too."
"Oh? Why?"