“Nothing here,” he reported, and then made his way into the kitchen premises.
Dr. Ringwood heard his steps retreating; then, after a short interval, there came the sound of a door closing and the shooting of a bolt. It was not long before Sir Clinton reappeared.
“Somebody's been on the premises,” he said curtly. “That must have been the sound I heard. The back door was open.”
Dr. Ringwood felt himself at a loss amid the complexities of his adventures.
“I hope that confounded maid hasn't got the wind up and cleared out,” he exclaimed, his responsibility for his patient coming foremost in the confusion of the situation.
“No use thinking of chasing anyone through this fog,” Sir Clinton confessed, betraying in his turn his own professional bias. “Whoever it was has got clean away. Let's go upstairs and have a look round, doctor.”
Leading the way, he snapped down the switch at the foot of the stair-case; but to Dr. Ringwood's surprise, no light appeared above. Sir Clinton pulled a flash-lamp from his pocket and hurried towards the next flat; as he rounded the turn of the stair, he gave a muffled exclamation. At the same moment, a high-pitched voice higher up in the house broke into a torrent of aimless talk.
“That girl's a bit delirious,” Dr. Ringwood diagnosed, as he heard the sound; and he quickened his ascent. But as he reached a little landing and could see ahead of him, he was brought up sharply by the sight which met his eyes. Sir Clinton was bending with his flash-lamp over a huddled mass which lay on the floor at the head of the flight, and a glance showed the doctor that it was the body of the maid who had admitted him to the house on his earlier visit.
“Come here, doctor, and see if anything can be done for her,” Sir Clinton's voice broke in on his surprise.
He leaped up the intervening steps and stooped in his turn over the body, while Sir Clinton made way for him and kept the flash-lamp playing on the face. Down the well of the stairs came the voice of the delirious patient, sunk now to a querulous drone.