“Then she stormed out of the room, and—oh, doctor, I don’t know—perhaps I fainted—it was as if I was all lead in that chair. I thought I was asleep. And then it was like a horrible, horrible dream—I saw her being killed. She was on the sofa, and some one was hitting at her. Oh, doctor, did I do it? Was it a dream? Did I really do it?”
“You saw—or you dreamed—who was it struck her in your dream?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was just like a dream when you can’t tell. I know it was Birdie. But was it me killed her?”
The door was flung open. The detective inspector strode in. “May Weston?” He was more the policeman than ever.
Reggie stood up. “How civil you are!” he said.
“You make yourself very busy, don’t you?” The inspector glared. “Don’t you interfere with me. May Weston—I shall charge you with the murder of your mistress, Birdie Bolton. Get up off that bed now.”
“He’s forgotten the rest of his part—‘anything you say may be used in evidence against you,’ Miss Weston. So you’ll say nothing, please.”
The inspector grew red and puffed, and advanced upon Reggie. “Here, you—you clear out of this. You’re obstructing me in——”
“Is it possible?” Reggie drawled. “Well, it isn’t necessary, anyway.” and he left the inspector still swelling.
It is fair to him to add, what he has since protested, that he never liked May Weston. Pussy-cat is his name for her, and he is not fond of cats.