There was just a minute's pause before the Doctor answered. In that minute all sorts of ideas went flashing through my head the way they say you see things before you drown. Then came the Doctor's voice with a curious sort of quietness in it.
"There, at Firehill?"
"Yes, sir. Can I take any message? Mr. Reddy was out very late last night and isn't up yet."
The Doctor answered that very cordially, all the hurry and hardness gone.
"Oh, that's all right. I'll not disturb him. No, I won't bother with a message. I'll call up later. Thanks very much. Good-bye."
I dropped back in my chair, tapping with a pencil on the corner of the drawer and looking sideways at the Doctor as he came out of the booth. He had a queer look, his eyes keen and bright, and there was some color in his face. The strange man turned round, and the Doctor gave him a glance sharp as a razor, but all he said was: "Come on, Mills," and they went out and mounted into the car.
When the door banged on them I drew a deep breath and flattened out against the chair back. They hadn't eloped!
Gee, it was a relief! Not because of myself. Honest to God, that's straight. I knew I couldn't have him any more than I could have had the Kohinoor diamond. It was because I knew—deep down where you feel the truth—that Sylvia Hesketh wasn't the girl for him to marry.
That was about half-past eight. It was after ten when a message came for Mapleshade that made the world turn upside down and left me white and sick. It was from the Coroner and said that Sylvia Hesketh had been found that morning on the turnpike, murdered.
Poor Mrs. Fowler took it!