She staggered to the door. Her cousin caught her.
“Thank you, Davie,” she whispered. “Leave me now. I will be all right soon. My heart troubles me. No. Do not ring. Let us keep our miseries from the servants.”
She passed out, leaving Hume and the barrister uncertain how best to act. The situation had developed with a vengeance. Brett was more bewildered than ever before in his life.
“That scoundrel killed Alan, and now he wants to kill his own wife!” growled Hume, when they were alone.
Brett looked through him rather than at him. He was thinking intently. For a long time—minutes it seemed to his fuming companion—he remained motionless, with glazed, immovable eyes. Then he awoke to action.
“Quick!” he cried. “Tell me if this room has changed much since you were last here. Is the furniture the same? Is that the writing-table? What chair did you sit in? Where was it placed? Quick, man! You have wasted eighteen months. Give me no opinions, but facts.”
Thus admonished, scared somewhat by the barrister’s volcanic energy, Hume obeyed him.
“There is no material change in the room,” he said. “The secretaire is the same. You see, here is the drawer which was broken open. It bears the marks of the implement used to force the lock. I think I sat in this chair, or one like it. It was placed here. My face was turned towards the fire, yet in my dream I was looking through the centre window. The Japanese sword rested here. I showed you where Alan’s body was found.”
The young man darted about the room to illustrate each sentence. Brett followed his words and actions without comment. He grabbed his hat and stick.
“We will return later in the day,” he said. “Let us go at once and call on Mrs. Eastham.”