“Yes, I know that well. But remember. An over-dose. An accident. Nothing else. Do you follow me?”
“Quite, sir. Heaven help us all.”
“Very well. Now send for the doctor, without needlessly alarming the other servants.”
Bruce placed the envelope in the pocket of his overcoat, saying to the detective:
“We will examine this later, White. Just now we must do what we can to avoid a scandal. The case between Lady Dyke and her husband will be settled by a higher tribunal than we had counted upon.”
“It certainly looks like an accident, Mr. Bruce,” was the answer, “but it all depends upon the view the doctor takes. And you know, of course, that I shall have to report the actual facts to my superiors.”
“That is obvious. Yet no harm is done at this early stage in taking such steps as may finally render undue publicity needless. It may be impossible; but on the other hand, until we have heard Sir Charles’s version, contained, I suppose, in this letter to me, it is advisable to sustain the theory of an accidental death.”
“Anything I can do to help you will be done,” replied the detective. With that they dropped the subject, and more carefully scrutinized the room.
To all intents and purposes Sir Charles Dyke might, indeed, have brought about the catastrophe inadvertently. The sleeping-draught bore the ledger number of its prescription, and there is nothing unusual in a patient striving to help the cautious dose ordered by a physician by the addition of a more powerful nostrum.