“You walked here,” Tish said dryly. “You didn’t fly, you know, Emmie.”
Well, she couldn’t have flown anywhere. She was as fat as butter, and as healthy-looking a woman as ever I’ve seen. Will had run to telephone for the doctor, and Emmie seemed to realize the bread and butter, for she held up the hand that had it and said feebly:
“What’s this?”
“Just what it looks like, Emmie,” said Tish.
“Strange!” she whispered. “I don’t remember anything. Who found me here, and when?”
“I did,” Tish said coldly. “You had just spread on the butter and were reaching for the jam when I came in.”
She gave Tish a look of absolute hatred, and then the nurse ran in and drove us out. Later on we heard poor Will carrying her up the staircase, and when he bumped against the rail with her she yelped. He twisted his back doing it, but when the doctor came he said it had been a curious case of somnambulism.
“In her state of weakness,” he said, “it’s impossible to believe that she walked down those stairs, Miss Carberry. She must have slid down.”
“She walked down. I was behind her.”
“Why on earth didn’t you stop her?”