The doctor was in. He came at once to the door of his consulting-room, and there was no mask of cordiality in his manner.
“Please come in,” he said curtly.
“I shall stay here, I think, doctor.” I did not like his face or his manner; there was a subtle change in both. He had thrown off the air of friendliness, and I thought, too, that he looked anxious and haggard.
“Doctor Walker,” I said, “I have come to you to ask some questions. I hope you will answer them. As you know, my nephew has not yet been found.”
“So I understand,” stiffly.
“I believe, if you would, you could help us, and that leads to one of my questions. Will you tell me what was the nature of the conversation you held with him the night he was attacked and carried off?”
“Attacked! Carried off!” he said, with pretended surprise. “Really, Miss Innes, don’t you think you exaggerate? I understand it is not the first time Mr. Innes has—disappeared.”
“You are quibbling, doctor. This is a matter of life and death. Will you answer my question?”
“Certainly. He said his nerves were bad, and I gave him a prescription for them. I am violating professional ethics when I tell you even as much as that.”
I could not tell him he lied. I think I looked it. But I hazarded a random shot.