While Ann raised her eyebrows, he walked over and took it gently from her fingers. A faint expression of relief flashed over her face as he turned away.
Rich bent over the woman on the bed. Unfastening two small catches at her wrist, he rolled back the sleeve of the gown almost to her shoulder. Courtney saw the long pin gleam as he turned it against the light.
"Watch!" instructed Rich.
Taking up Vicky's limp left arm, he held the flesh taut with his left hand. With his right he pressed the point of the pin against it. Then with his thumb he drove the pin full to its head in Vicky's arm.
It seemed to Courtney that Ann was about to utter a cry. A curious flavor of evil seemed to cling round this whole scene, though the source of it began in mist. Yet no word, or cry, or movement of any kind came from Vicky, who continued to breathe in sleep. Delicately, with deft fingers, Rich withdrew the pin so that no trace of blood showed.
"Two hundred years ago," he commented, "that would have hanged her as a witch. Thank heavens we're less superstitious. Or are we?" He turned round, smiling. "You'd better go downstairs, Miss Browning. I'm going to wake Mrs. Fane up. I don't relish the prospect, but…"
Ann walked over to the door.
"I really did come up here to get my compact," she assured him — and went out.
If it had not been for Dr. Rich's next movement, Courtney would have ended his own acute discomfort by stepping in from the balcony. But again he stopped. For Rich locked the door.
The sharp click of the key was like an Omen. Rich, a red bar showing across his forehead, took one or two steps up and down the room. He seemed to be muttering to himself.