One day Florence found Susan sitting in a chair, her head in her hands.
"Why, Susan, what's the matter?" cried Florence.
"I don't know what is the matter, dear, but I haven't felt well for two or three days. I'm dizzy all the time; I can't read or sew or eat or sleep."
"Why didn't you tell me?" said Florence, reproachfully. She rang for the detective-maid. "Ella, I don't know anything about doctors hereabouts."
"I know a good one, Miss Florence. Shall I send for him?"
"Do; Susan is ill."
Jones was not prepared for treachery in his own household; so when he heard that a doctor had been called to attend Susan he was without the least suspicion that he had been betrayed. More than this, there had been no occasion to summon a doctor in the seven years Mr. Hargreave had lived there. So Jones went about his petty household affairs without more thought upon the matter. The maid had been recommended to him as one of the shrewdest young women in the detective business.
The doctor arrived. He was a real doctor; no doubt of that. He investigated Susan's condition—brought about by a subtle though not dangerous poison—and instantly recommended the seashore. Susan was not used to being confined to the house; she was essentially an out-of-doors little body. The seashore would bring her about in no time. The doctor suggested Atlantic City because of its mildness throughout the year and its nearness to New York.
"I'm afraid she'll have to go alone," said Jones gravely.
"I shan't stir!" declared Susan. "I shan't leave my girl even if I am sick." Susan caught Florence's hand and pressed it.