“After her mother had broken under the strain,” Dr. Patterson pointed out. “Too late to undo the consequences of her act.”
“But she’s going to be all right, is she?”
“Indeed, yes. She has responded to my treatment in a splendid way.”
“One more question, doctor.” Shayne leaned forward and his voice roughened. “Has your treatment included the use of drugs — hypodermics?”
“Certainly not.” Dr. Patterson started up indignantly. “What put that thought in your mind?”
Shayne stood up. He said casually, “Maybe Briggs is the dopehead over there,” then strolled out of the inner office.
There was no one in the anteroom. He hesitated there a moment, heard Dr. Patterson dialing a number in the other office. He stepped to a desk where there was an extension and lifted it cautiously to prevent its clicking.
A voice said, “Hello,” and Dr. Patterson said, “Let me speak to Mr. Bugler.”
The thin-lipped nurse came hurrying in. She glanced suspiciously at Shayne with the telephone to his ear. He grimaced at the instrument and cradled it gently, remarking, “No answer.”
He strode out into the empty hallway humming a careless tune. Bright sunlight on the grass and trees and the faint street noises beyond the wall were a welcome relief after the drear silence inside.