“Oh, there’s—there’s nothing the matter with me, doctor,” said she breathlessly. “All I want to know is whether the—the poor woman died naturally, or—or was——”
Before she could get any further, she saw the doctor look up and exchange a grave glance with Mademoiselle Laure. Perceiving at once that he appeared to doubt her sanity, angry with the Frenchwoman, and determined to put an end to the misunderstanding, Audrey darted across the room towards the door of the fitting-room. “You have been misinformed, doctor,” said she quickly. “It is not to see me that you were called in, but an unhappy woman who——”
She had tried the door of the fitting-room, and it had opened in her hand. Audrey looked in, stopped short, turned giddy, fell back. Then, passing her hand across her eyes, and waiting a moment to recover herself, she went boldly into the room.
For a whole minute she stood staring round her, clenching her hands, trying to understand, to believe the evidence of her eyes.
Not only was the white-clad lady no longer there, but not a sign of her presence, a trace of a tragedy, was to be seen.
“Where—where is she? Where have you put—the body?” hissed she in a hoarse, peremptory whisper.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and spoke soothingly.
“Madame,” said he, “there has been nobody there. It is the result of an overactive imagination, upon a stomach left too long without food, and an overwrought system. I will write you out a little prescription; you must take a sleeping draught, and I will come and see you in the morning.”
And he looked round for paper and a pen.