“Broken bones do not usually prevent one from writing, or dictating, a letter.”
“It is peculiar!” Mrs. Clephane admitted.
“What is the name of the hospital?” the Marquis asked.
“In the hurry and excitement I quite forgot to ask the name,” she replied. “The station officials selected it. I was thinking of her—Madame Durrand, I mean—more than the name of the hospital. I don’t even know the street; though it’s somewhere in the locality of the station. It is dreadfully stupid of me, your Excellency, not to know—but I don’t.”
“We can remedy that very readily,” he said, and pressed a button. His secretary responded. “Telephone our Consul-General in New York to ascertain immediately from the railroad officials the hospital to which Madame Durrand, who broke her ankle and wrist in the Pennsylvania Station, at ten o’clock on Monday, was taken.”
The secretary saluted and withdrew.
“Might not our friends the enemy have bribed someone to suppress Madame Durrand’s letter or wire?” Mrs. Clephane asked.
“Very possibly. It is entirely likely that they wouldn’t be apt to stop with the accident.”
“You think they were responsible for Madame Durrand’s fall?” she exclaimed.
“Have you forgotten the man who jostled Madame Durrand?” the Marquis reminded.