“Had Mrs. Garlett become worse?”
“My wife could not bear for me to see her in the sort of state in which I understood she was then. So I waited downstairs in my study, and about—well, I don’t think it could have been more than twenty minutes after he had come into the house, Dr. Maclean came down and broke to me the fact that she was dead.”
“Had she died while you were fetching the doctor?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so. I was terribly upset, and I asked no questions. Though she was an invalid, she always seemed, in a way, full of life—a steady, if a low, flame. And she had seemed so well, so happy, that afternoon! But wait a bit. I have forgotten something. My wife had had a disagreeable shock. One of our servants had admitted her sweetheart into the house the night before—as a matter of fact into the drawing room, which has a French window opening into the garden. Mrs. Garlett heard sounds, and thought there were burglars in the house. She actually went downstairs herself, and caught the girl red-handed, as it were. I remember suggesting to Dr. Maclean that the shock—for she was very particular about such things—might have affected her heart. But he didn’t think so.”
He stopped speaking. Mr. Kentworthy was busily writing, and Harry Garlett stared at his visitor’s bent head. Though assuring himself that it would be “all right,” he felt an eerie feeling of apprehension wrapping him round.
“I thank you for the straightforward way in which you have answered my questions,” said the police inspector, getting up from his chair, “and now I propose to see Dr. Maclean.”
“Would you like me to make a telephone appointment for you with him?” asked Garlett. “He’s a very busy man.”
“Why, yes, I should. But I hope you won’t think it unreasonable of me to ask you to give him no hint as to my business?”
“You will hear everything I say to him,” answered the other quickly.
He took his telephone receiver off. “Put me through to Dr. Maclean’s house.”