Sybil Kean rose to her feet.
“I must leave you, my children,” she said regretfully. “If I don’t go and rest, that sinister man, Gregg, will have my blood. If Hatter comes out with any more interesting revelations, mind you report to me, Cynthia.”
She moved slowly towards the house. Cynthia looked after her with a little frown of mingled pity and anxiety.
“She doesn’t seem to get any better,” she said. “I hope we haven’t tired her. She looked all in, just now.”
“I wonder what Gregg’s opinion really is . . .” began Fayre; then broke off with a sudden exclamation and sprang to his feet.
But he was too late. Sybil Kean had wavered for a moment, recovered herself, and then, before he or Cynthia could reach her, sunk in a huddled heap by the door leading from the terrace to the drawing-room.
Cynthia was by her side in an instant.
“Ring for her maid, quick!” she commanded. “And then get Dr. Gregg on the telephone. It’s her heart again!”
Fortunately the maid proved efficient and, while Fayre was ringing up the doctor, she and Cynthia got the unconscious woman to bed between them. Gregg was not at his house, but at the Cottage Hospital, where Fayre eventually ran him to earth and managed to get him on the end of the telephone. He promised to come at once and Fayre was waiting impatiently in the hall for his arrival when Cynthia joined him, looking worried and anxious.
“She’s still unconscious,” she said. “Her maid’s splendid—she seems to know exactly what to do; but I wish Dr. Gregg would come!”