The inspector remained discreetly in the background.
"Ask her Ladyship please to come here as soon as she can get ready. If she is asleep, it will be necessary to wake her."
"Very good, my lord."
The two men sat facing each other in silence.
Cyril was hardly conscious of the other's presence. He must think; he knew he must think; but his brain seemed paralysed. There must be a way of clearing his wife without casting suspicion on Anita. Yet he could think of none. Was it possible that he was now called upon to choose between the woman he hated and the woman he loved, between honour and dishonour? No, there must be a middle course. Time would surely solve the difficulty.
The door opened and Amy came slowly into the room. She looked desperately ill.
She was wrapped in a red velvet dressing-gown and its warm colour contrasted painfully with the greyness of her face and lips. On catching sight of the inspector, she started, but controlling herself with an obvious effort, she turned to her husband.
"You wish to speak to me?"
"You can see for yourself, Inspector, that her Ladyship is in no condition to be questioned," remonstrated Cyril, moving quickly to his wife's side.
"Just as you say, my lord, but in that case her Ladyship had better finish her dressing. It will be necessary for her to accompany me to headquarters."