Shayne dropped his arm from her shoulder. His voice was hard when he asked, “How do you know she’s dead?”
Christine smiled. A patient, knowing smile. “I’ve known all along.” She paused, then added earnestly, “You’ll let Joe go in peace, won’t you? He’ll make the third and that will end it.”
A tall nurse in a starched uniform glided into the hall from a side door. She took Christine by the arm and said cheerfully, “The doctor said you weren’t to go away, Miss Forbes. You know he gave you something for your nerves and he wants you to lie down and rest.”
“Oh, yes,” Christine murmured. “I was to lie down, wasn’t I?” She went away with the nurse.
Sweat was standing on Shayne’s forehead, though the open hallway was chilly.
A stocky, white-coated man was coming down the stairs. Approaching Shayne with a nod of recognition, he said: “I’m Doctor Fairweather. I suppose you are anxious to know Mr. Meade’s condition. He is resting under a sedative.”
“Will he live?” Shayne asked.
Dr. Fairweather placed the tips of his fingers carefully together and frowned at them. “It is impossible to make an accurate prognosis at this time. He has a chance. Yes, a fair chance.”
Shayne dragged in a deep breath. “How soon will he be able to talk? Couldn’t you rouse him enough to answer a couple of questions?”
Dr. Fairweather said, “No, indeed. That would almost surely be fatal. Meade must have perfect rest.”