Poiccart closed the door on him; stopped in the passage to arrange a salver on the table and hung up a hat. All this Meadows saw through the fanlight and walking-stick periscope which is so easily fitted and can be of such value. And seeing, his doubts evaporated.
Poiccart went slowly up the stairs into the little office room, pulled back the curtains and opened the window at the top. The next second, the watching detective saw the light go out and went away.
“I’m sorry to keep you in the dark,” said Poiccart.
The men who were in the room waited until the shutters were fast and the curtains pulled across, and then the light flashed on. White of face, her eyes closed, her breast scarcely moving, Mirabelle Leicester lay on the long settee. Her domino was a heap of shimmering green and scarlet on the floor, and Leon was gently sponging her face, George Manfred watching from the back of the settee, his brows wrinkled.
“Will she die?” he asked bluntly.
“I don’t know: they sometimes die of that stuff,” replied Leon cold-bloodedly. “She must have had it pretty raw. Gurther is a crude person.”
“What was it?” asked George.
Gonsalez spread out his disengaged hand in a gesture of uncertainty.
“If you can imagine morphia with a kick in it, it was that. I don’t know. I hope she doesn’t die: she is rather young—it would be the worst of bad luck.”
Poiccart stirred uneasily. He alone had within his soul what Leon would call “a trace” of sentiment.