Arthur Whitewell ran his hand up over his bald forehead, smoothed the hair on the top of his head, and repeated the gesture twice. He glanced surreptitiously at Ogden Dearborne, then back to me. “How did you do it, Lam?” he asked.
I said, “Helen Framley knew more than she admitted.”
“How did you get it out of her?”
Bertha Cool came in with the answer. “Made love to her, of course. They go absolutely mad over Donald. What did she tell you, lover?”
“I’ll make my report later on,” I said, “in confidence, in writing, and to you.”
I turned to look at Arthur Whitewell.
Philip said, “Come on, Dad let’s get started. We’ll have to arrange for a plane.”
Whitewell said, “Yes. Naturally, we must leave at once. Is she — is there any chance of recovery, Lam?”
“As I understand it, her physical condition is all right. It’s purely a mental reaction.”
“From what?”