The silence that ensued was terminated by the entrance of Doctor Drumm, a youthful, earnest man with an aggressive bearing. He sank heavily into a chair and wiped his face with a large silk handkerchief.
“She’s pulled through,” he announced. “I happened to be standing by the window looking out—sheer chance—when I saw the curtains go down—saw ’em before Hennessey[23] did. I grabbed up my bag and the pulmotor, and was over here in a jiffy. The butler was waiting at the door, and took me up-stairs. Queer crab, that butler. The girl was lying across the bed, and it didn’t take but one look to see that I wasn’t dealing with strychnine. No spasms or sweating or risus sardonicus, you understand. Quiet and peaceful; shallow breathing; cyanosis. Morphine evidently. Then I looked at her pupils. Pin-points. No doubt now. So I sent for the nurse and got busy.”
“A close call?” asked Markham.
“Close enough.” The doctor nodded importantly. “You can’t tell what would have happened if somebody hadn’t got to her in a hurry. I figured she’d got all six grains that were lost, and gave her a good stiff hypo of atropine—a fiftieth. It reacted like a shot. Then I washed her stomach out with potassium permanganate. After that I gave her artificial respiration—she didn’t seem to need it, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Then the nurse and I got busy exercising her arms and legs, trying to keep her awake. Tough work, that. Hope I don’t get pneumonia sweating there with the windows all open. . . . Well, so it went. Her breathing kept getting better, and I gave her another hundredth of atropine for good measure. At last I managed to get her on her feet. The nurse is walking her up and down now.” He mopped his face again with a triumphant flourish of the handkerchief.
“We’re greatly indebted to you, doctor,” said Markham. “It’s quite possible you have been the means of solving this case.—When will we be able to question your patient?”
“She’ll be loggy and nauseated all day—kind of general collapse, you understand, with painful breathing, drowsiness, headache, and that sort of thing—no fit condition to answer questions. But to-morrow morning you’ll be able to talk to her as much as you like.”
“That will be satisfactory. And what of the bouillon cup the nurse mentioned?”
“It tasted bitter—morphine, all right.”
As Drumm finished speaking Sproot passed down the hall to the front door. A moment later Von Blon paused at the archway and looked into the drawing-room. The strained silence which followed the exchange of greetings caused him to study us with growing alarm.
“Has anything happened?” he finally asked.