"Do you know why you were chloroformed last night, and who did it?"
"I think I know who did it, but I don't understand. I have been trying all day to think it out. I'm afraid to go to sleep to-night."
"You need not be," I assured her. "If necessary, we will have the city police in a ring around the house. If you know and don't tell, Margery, you are running a risk, and more than that, you are protecting a person who ought to be in jail."
"I'm not sure," she persisted. "Don't ask me about it, please."
"What does Mrs. Butler say?"
"Just what she said this morning. And she says valuable papers were taken from under her pillow. She was very ill—hysterical, all afternoon."
The gloom and smouldering fire of the Sonata Apassionata came to us from across the hall. I leaned over and took Margery's small hand between my two big ones.
"Why don't you tell me?" I urged. "Or—you needn't tell me, I know what you think. But there isn't any motive that I can see, and why would she chloroform you?"
"I don't know," Margery shuddered. "Sometimes—I wonder—do you think she is altogether sane?"
The music ended with the crash of a minor chord. Fred and Edith came down the stairs, and the next moment we were all together, and the chance for a quiet conversation was gone. At the door Fred turned and came back.