The maid seemed put out that he did not go straight to his patient; but she led the way to the cloakroom where the telephone was fixed. Dr. Ringwood paused before going to the instrument. He bethought himself of a pretext to get this nervous creature out of earshot.
“Let's see,” he said. “I may need some boiling water—a small jug of it. Can you go and put on a kettle now, so that it'll be ready if I want it?”
The maid went off towards the kitchen, whereupon he closed the door behind him and rang up. To his relief, Sir Clinton Driffield was at home; and in less than a couple of minutes Dr. Ringwood was able to tell his story.
“This is Dr. Ringwood speaking, Sir Clinton. You may remember me; I'm attending your butler.”
“Nothing wrong in the case, I hope?” the Chief Constable demanded.
“No, it's not that. I was called here—Heatherfield, 26 Lauderdale Avenue, this evening. I'm Dr. Carew's locum and a stranger in Westerhaven; and in this fog I went to the wrong house—the one next door to here: Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue. Mr. Hassendean's house. The place was lit up and a car was at the door; but I got no answer when I rang the bell. Something roused my suspicions and I went inside. The house was empty: no maids or anyone on the premises. In a smoke-room on the ground floor I found a youngster of about twenty-two or so, dying. He'd been shot twice in the lung and he died on my hands almost as I went in.”
He paused; but as Sir Clinton made no comment, Dr. Ringwood continued:
“The house hadn't a telephone. I came in here, after locking the smoke-room door. I've a patient to see in this house. How long will it take your people to get to Ivy Lodge and take charge?”
“I'll be over myself in twenty minutes,” Sir Clinton replied. “Probably the local police will be there about the same time. I'll ring them up now.”
“Very well. I'll see to my patient here; and then I'll go back to Ivy Lodge to wait for you. Someone ought to be on the premises in case the maids or the family come home again.”