“Yes, sir. That's him.”
Dr. Ringwood had confirmed his guess. It was young Hassendean's body that lay next door.
“Let's see,” he said. “I may have to come back here in an hour or so. I'd like to have another look at my patient upstairs. Will Mrs. Silverdale be back by that time, do you think?”
“That would be about half-past eleven, sir? No, I don't think she'd be back as soon as that. She's usually out until after midnight, most nights.”
“Well, you might sit up and wait for me, please. Go to bed if I'm not here by twelve. But—— No, if you can manage it, I think you ought to keep awake till Mrs. Silverdale comes home. That patient shouldn't be left with no one to look after her. I'm just afraid she may get a little light-headed in the night. It's hard lines on you; but you must do your best for her.”
“Very well, sir, if you say so.”
“Perhaps Mr. Silverdale will turn up. Is he usually late?”
“One never can tell with him, sir. Some days he comes home to dinner and works late in his study. Other times he's out of the house from breakfast-time and doesn't get back till all hours. He might be here in five minutes now, or he mightn't come home till two in the morning.”
Dr. Ringwood felt that he had extracted all the information he could reasonable expect to get. He gave the maid some directions as to what she should do in possible emergencies; then, glancing at his watch, he took his departure.
As he went down the steps of the house, he found no signs of the fog lifting; and he had to exercise as much care as ever in making his way through it. He was not unsatisfied with the results of his interrogation. Young Hassendean had met Silverdale's wife by appointment, evidently. They had dined together; and then they had gone away in the fog. Clearly enough, from what the maid said, both of them were in a somewhat abnormal state when they left the house. ‘Dazed-like,’ ‘a bit nervous—high strung.’ He recalled the expressions with a faint annoyance at the vagueness of the descriptions.