“I don't think you will, Claire, my dear!” His voice was monotonous; the placid smile was vanishing. “You see, having spoken to that dear little doll of a man, Monsieur Henri de Lavergne, I'm very much interested in hearing your side of the story.”
“Story!” the girl echoed wildly. “Story—while that man's life is lost! Are you mad—or a murderer—or——”
“Another lover,” said Doctor Crang, and threw back his head and laughed.
She shrank away; her hands tight against her bosom. She glanced around her. If she could only reach the telephone and lock the connecting door! No! She did not dare leave him alone with the wounded man.
“What—what are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Nothing—till I hear the story,” he answered.
“If—if he dies”—her voice rang steadily again—“I'll have you charged with murder.”
“What nonsense!” said Doctor Crang imperturbably. “Did I stab the gentleman?” He took from his pocket a little case, produced a hypodermic syringe, and pushed back his sleeve. “A doctor is not a magician. If he finds a patient beyond reach of aid what can he be expected to do? My dear Claire, where are your brains to-night—you who are usually so amazingly clever?”
“You are mad—insane with drug!” she cried out piteously.
He shook his head, and coolly inserted the needle of the hypodermic in his arm.