“She was lame—the one you thought ill?” Cheyne persisted. “She had twisted her ankle.”
“Perhaps so,” the lady returned, “but I do not think so. She seemed to me to step equally well on each foot. It was more as if she was half asleep or very weak. Her head hung forward and she did not seem to notice where she was going.”
Cheyne made a gesture of despair.
“Heavens above!” he cried hoarsely. “What have they done to her?”
“Drugged her,” French answered succinctly. “But you should take courage from that, Mr. Cheyne. It looks as if they didn’t mean to do her a personal injury. Yes, madam?”
Before the invalid could speak Cheyne went on, a puzzled note in his voice.
“But look here,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand this. You say that the sick lady was wearing a fur coat?”
“Yes, a musquash fur.”
“But—” He looked at French in perplexity. “Miss Merrill has a fur coat like that—I’ve seen it. But she wasn’t wearing it last night. Can it be someone else after all?” His voice took on a dawning eagerness.
French shook his head.