She was not merely pretty, but something infinitely better—she had the rugged statuesque beauty of a goddess in face and form.
She was pacing the floor like a caged lioness when Nick entered. Her head was thrown back and her hands were clasped across her forehead, allowing the full sleeves to fall away from her perfectly formed, milk-white arms.
“Miss Lund, this is Mr. Carter, of whom I spoke,” Doctor Lightfoot said gently. “He believes he can help you. I shall leave you with him, but I will be within call.”
He withdrew softly and closed the door. They were alone.
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 an 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.”