But somehow, I did not like the idea of his falling in love with Ethel or at any rate making any open declaration of his feelings. It was not only that I felt that it added yet another note to the general discord. It was unseemly and inopportune—it was deliberately inconsiderate. And it was from this time that I began to wonder if Kenneth’s attitude were not more reasonable than I had at first supposed it, and that my admiration for the doctor began to be more troubled in its quality. I admired him still, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that just conceivably my admiration might be misplaced.
I returned to the dining-room and reported on Ethel’s condition. Kenneth sat at the end of the table in the chair that little Allport had been occupying. His own still lay on the floor where he had hurled it. He was looking straight before him, a picture of glum despair.
It has often occurred to me that people of a quick and ready temper must be altogether lacking so far as any sense of humor is concerned—that these hot bursts of passion must leave such a feeling of ridicule and shame that only those insensible to both could afford to indulge. Kenneth, however, was not of the hot-tempered type, and as I saw him seated morosely at the end of the table, I was both sorry and concerned; sorry for him, whole-heartedly sorry, concerned for the future. How were we to get through the next few days, I wondered, with the doctor and Ethel and Kenneth all confined within the ten-foot wall that circled Dalehouse and its secluded sun-baked garden? Barely six hours had passed since Ethel had left the breakfast table to waken Stella, and yet here we were, all at loggerheads and enmity—Ethel’s and Kenneth’s engagement broken, probably beyond repair; the doctor making love to Ethel, if my hearing had not played me a trick; Kenneth giving way to violence and the hurling of chairs; each one of us busy with his own dark thoughts and conjectures. How were we to get through the hours that lay ahead?
Allport was writing up some notes in his note-book, and looked up as I made my statement. “Well, that’s a mercy, at any rate,” he grumbled; and with a glance over his shoulder at the clock, “Will the doctor be long before he is back? I want to see him again, and I must leave the house by three o’clock; would you mind telling him, and ask Miss Summerson to bring me the statement she has been writing out.”
I had forgotten all about Miss Summerson, but I hurried back along the passage to the consulting-room to give The Tundish the detective’s message. Ethel was still on the couch, lying on her back with the lower part of her face heavily bandaged. She raised her eyebrows by way of a smile of greeting—it was all she could do, poor girl—and in answer to my question as to the doctor’s whereabouts she pointed to the door of the dispensary.
I found him standing against the desk, holding a sealed envelope in one hand. To my astonishment he was humming a gentle air. “Here is Miss Summerson’s report,” he laughed, “but where, oh, where, is Miss Summerson herself? I don’t think our little friend will be overpleased, will he?”
“Do you mean to say she has gone?”
“Yes, and after all she wasn’t definitely told to stay. However, let us take her report to Allport and hear what he has to say.”
We found the little man, watch in hand. “Oh, here you are at last,” he said. “I’ve got exactly five minutes left, and these are my instructions:
“You, Dr. Wallace, can go on your rounds as usual—it might appear too extraordinary did you not—but one of my men is to act as chauffeur. I’ve already arranged it with Inspector Brown. If any one asks questions, as no doubt they will, you are to say that Miss Palfreeman died in her sleep and that the police are arranging for a post-mortem to find out the cause if they can. You can say it’s a mystery—as indeed it is—and you need mention neither suicide nor murder. ‘I don’t know,’ will be your best answer to most of the questions you are likely to be asked.