"None; oh, none, Mérat."
"It is very strange."
"Yes, it is very strange, Mérat; we might talk of it for hours without getting nearer to the truth. So Mr. Dean came here?"
"Yes. When I opened the door he said, 'Where is mademoiselle?' and I said, 'Asleep; she left a note that she was not to be called.' 'Then, Mérat, something must have happened, for she was to meet me at the railway station. We must see to this at once.' Her door was locked, but Mr. Dean put his shoulder against it. In spite of the noise, she did not awake—a very few more grains would have killed her."
"Grains of what?"
"Chloral, Sir Owen. We thought she was dead. Mr. Dean went for the doctor. He looked very grave when he saw her; I could see he thought she was dead; but after examining her he said, 'She has a young heart, and will get over it.'"
"So that is your story, Mérat?"
"Yes, Sir Owen, that is the story. There is no doubt about it she tried to kill herself, the doctor says."
"So, Mérat, you think it was for Mr. Dean. Don't you know mademoiselle has taken a religious turn?"
"I know it, Sir Owen."