“You see, Miss, at St. Giles, in London, we always called enemas syringes. I jus’ needs to know, you see.”
“Were you there, Horace?”
“I ain’t braggin’ Miss, but I was an orderly there four years. That’s how come I brought the bed-pans; we done it that way!”
He threw his helpless hands out in an explanatory gesture and shambled down the corridor.
Miss Evelina Kerr sat down at her desk to regain her control. She should have gone on with the routine. But she sat down. Things weren’t going so well. That man was a detective as sure as life and he was lying, and Aunt Roenna ought to know....
She picked up the telephone and started to take the receiver from the hook, and then she jumped up and somehow smothered a scream.
Standing over her, peering down into her little, piggish eyes with his steel-gray slits was a tall, fat man, in a blue uniform with brass buttons. In his right hand he held a bunch of red American Beauty roses, and the other was in a side pocket.
Miss Kerr thought he was a policeman and the left hand was upon his pistol holster. He carefully placed the roses in the elbow of the left arm, and with his right hand drew her out into the ward. His grip was strong and heavy.
By that time Miss Kerr had regained her breath. She tried to snatch her arm away and cringed when she failed.
“What do you want?”