With one accord the two men advanced to her side. “Where was Paul?” demanded Alan and the sheriff almost in the same breath.
“I do not know,” replied Miriam. “The shock of not seeing my patient was so great I felt myself reeling backwards—and knew no more.”
Guy Trenholm and Alan exchanged glances. “And the murderer’s confederate seized that moment to chloroform you!” ejaculated Alan.
“Confederate? You are traveling fast, Alan, my boy,” exclaimed Trenholm. “Why couldn’t the man in the bed have sprung up as Miss Ward toppled over and chloroformed her as she lay on the floor in a fainting condition?”
“That is possible,” agreed Alan. “What did the man look like, Miss Ward?”
Miriam’s gaze shifted dumbly from one to the other of her companions. She had dreaded the question. “His eyes were closed and except that he wore a beard and his hair was dark, I cannot tell you what he looked like,” she stammered. “The room was dimly lighted. I saw the man but for an instant, and then lost consciousness.”
Sheriff Trenholm regarded her in steadfast silence. It was Alan who broke the prolonged pause.
“Would you know the man if you saw him again?” he asked and Miriam was grateful that no note of doubt had crept into his voice.
“I am sure I would,” she answered swiftly.
“Then, don’t worry.” Alan’s smile was very engaging. His eyes swept a searching glance about the big bedroom. “How was the man dressed?”