Curtis’ kind heart was touch by her genuine grief. “Perhaps Miss Lucille is unduly alarmed,” he suggested. “Her father may not be seriously hurt.” Gretchen looked unconvinced. “It was what you call a ‘bad smash,’” she repeated the words almost as if she had learned them by rote. “I feel so because we come togedder from my country, and she is my dear young Mees.”
Curtis had a retentive memory. Where had he heard Gretchen use that phrase before in the same agitated tones? Before he could question her further she had darted down the corridor toward Lucille’s bedroom. He lingered by the staircase for over five minutes, then becoming restive, turned and paced up and down the hall, each turn taking him a little further from the staircase. He paused abruptly before a closed door and touched the knob somewhat doubtfully—a piece of twine still hung from it.
His memory had not been at fault in the location of John Meredith’s bedroom. He swung open the door and stepped inside.
“Mon Dieu!” Susanne’s excited exclamation made him pause. “Mon Dieu, Monsieur le Docteur!” She pulled herself together and lowered her voice to its normal tone. “You haf—haf—” She reached out her hand to clutch the door as she got to her knees, but Curtis had swung the door to again. As he did so his hand brushed against the inside knob—from the key in the lock was suspended a wig.
“Is this yours?” he asked politely, concealing his astonishment and also his inclination to laugh.
“But yes, monsieur.” Susanne passed him and disengaged her property from the key, caught between the hair and the pretty cap she always wore. “Some time ago, monsieur, I had the fever, and my hair lef’ me.” Her nimble fingers replaced the wig and cap. “Monsieur will do me a kindness by not speaking of my misfortune.”
“Of course, Susanne, I will say nothing.”
“Merci, monsieur,” and waiting for no more, Susanne hurried off, in her haste never observing a small object hopping along the hall. She had not entirely closed the door and through the narrow opening it passed into John Meredith’s bedroom.
Curtis rested on his cane in deep thought. His brief conversation with the French maid had given him time to wonder at her presence in Meredith’s bedroom. What was she doing there? And above all, why was she on her knees? If she had not been on her knees how had her wig become caught in the key of the door? He had obviously swung the door against her as he entered. If she had been directly in front of the door he could not have opened it without using some force.
Curtis walked to the door and grasping the inside knob pulled it slowly open, as he did so walking in the direction it swung. It brought him against the right wall of the bedroom. Susanne must have been kneeling there when he entered. Curtis stood where he was and pushed the door to. Not until he heard the click of the latch did he move. Tucking his cane under his arm he moved his hands back and forth over the high mahogany panels with which the room was wainscoted. What had interested Mrs. Meredith’s French maid might prove of interest to him! He worked his way to the corner by the door, then, undiscouraged by his lack of success, covered the ground again slowly, feeling each panel as he went along. He had traversed some distance down the room when he paused to push a chair out of his way.