Miriam eyed him in startled wonder. What did his question portend?
“Doctor Roberts told me he felt that he had not located the real trouble,” she replied. “Nor can I give a reason for her, at times, alarming symptoms.”
“Can you not venture an opinion?”
“Mr. Trenholm!”
He turned and his rare smile gave her a ray of comfort and a sense of security.
“It’s unethical, I know,” he said. “But you must realize, Miss Ward, that we are confronted with a dastardly conspiracy, the tentacles of which reach from Russia to Abbott’s Lodge. Can I not count upon your aid to expose Zybinn’s plot?”
“You can.” Her voice rang out clearly, and again Trenholm smiled, well pleased. “I have sometimes thought that Mrs. Nash’s condition is due to a heart depressant—”
“A coal-tar poison,” quietly. “And by whom administered?”
Miriam moved unhappily. “I am not in the sickroom at all hours,” she observed dryly. “Miss Carter is there during the day, and Doctor Nash spends much time with his wife.”
Trenholm contemplated her, a gleam of something besides admiration in his eyes; then shifting his gears and releasing his brake, he drove onward.