SHAYNE TURNED THE COLLAR of his tuxedo up around his neck and strode rapidly toward the Teller House. Daylight spilling through the mist had scattered the crowd, and a parade of cars moved down the hill. The barroom was closed.
Knowing Phyllis as he did, he decided to look for her in the patio where he had left her, and went through the rear hall.
He found her sitting at a table with Celia Moore, whose stout torso sprawled on the table, her face cradled in the crook of her arm
Phyllis sprang up and cried, “Michael! I thought you’d never come. I don’t know what to do about her.”
The patio was deserted except for the two forlorn women. Shayne grinned and reached Phyllis in a few quick strides.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I thought you were going to interview Miss Forbes for me.”
“Oh — I did,” she said irritably. “And it was awful. She was nearly out of her mind when she left — and Miss Moore is to blame for it”
Shayne sat down close to her and slipped his arm around her. “Is she conscious?”
He indicated Miss Moore who was breathing evenly and audibly. A trickle of saliva ran down from her mouth, wetting her coat sleeve.
Phyllis whispered, “I don’t think so. She has been like that for an hour, and I didn’t want to leave her. I thought she’d come out of it in a little while.”