The actress turned for the first time, and a pang shot through the tender-hearted detective as he saw the tortured expression of her face.
She nodded absent-mindedly, but did not speak.
“Miss Lund,” the detective began, “I trust you will believe that I would not have intruded at this time if I hadn’t believed that I might possibly possess the key to last night’s unfortunate occurrence, and that——”
“You—the key? Impossible, sir?” the actress interrupted, in the precise but rather labored English which she had acquired in a surprisingly short time in anticipation of her American tour.
“We shall soon be able to tell,” Nick replied. “If I am wrong, I assure you that I shall not trouble you any further. If I am right, however, I hope to be able to help you. In any case, you may take it for granted that I am not trying to pry into your affairs. I have seen you on the stage more than once, both here and abroad. It is needless to say that I have the greatest admiration for your genius. Beyond that I know nothing about you, except what I have read.”
“Then, will you explain—briefly? You see that I am in no condition to talk.”
“I see that talking, of the right kind, would be the best thing for you, if the floodgates could be opened, Miss Lund,” Nick answered sympathetically. “I shall do better than explain; with your permission, I shall ask you a question.”
“What is it?”
“Simply this: Are you acquainted with a New York surgeon who goes by the name of Doctor Grantley—Hiram A. Grantley?”
The actress, who had remained standing, started slightly at the detective’s words. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her clenched hands were raised to it, as Ida Jones had described them.