"No," replied Poulton. "My wife has been on the verge of a nervous breakdown for weeks. The unfortunate affair in Charles Street merely precipitated a crisis. I am surprised that you should not have seen for yourself that she was far from well yesterday."
"I certainly got the impression that her ladyship was not herself," said Hemingway rather grimly.
"I imagine you might," was the imperturbable answer. "She is a very highly-strung woman, easily upset; and she has for some time been suffering from neurasthenia."
"That wasn't quite what I thought, sir."
Poulton looked faintly amused. "A medical man, Chief Inspector?"
"No, sir: merely a police-officer! There are certain symptoms we get to recognise in our job."
"Really? I haven't the least idea what you're talking about: it sounds very mysterious! But there is no mystery about my wife's illness, or about her whereabouts. I will tell you at once that she is in a Nursing Home, and that her doctor has forbidden even me to see her for the next week or so." He paused. "If you doubt that, I would suggest -"
"I don't doubt it, Mr.. Poulton. I believe Lady Nest is in a Nursing Home, and I believe she isn't allowed to see anyone. Which forces me to speak more frankly to you than I might have liked to do if I'd been able first to see her ladyship. But what I've got to say I don't think will be a surprise to you - the way things are. When I called on her ladyship yesterday morning, it was pretty plain to me, and to Inspector Grant here, who's had a good deal of experience in that branch, that she was in the habit of taking drugs."
"I believe," said Poulton, unmoved, "that she takes far more phenacetin than is at all good for her. Ah, yes, and also valerian - but that, I need hardly say, was prescribed for her."
"No, sir, not that kind of drug. What we call the White Drugs - cocaine, heroin, morphia. In your wife's case, cocaine."