The night was uneventful. Landis woke automatically at six-forty-five and had finished shaving when Stimson knocked on his door to say that the doctor had arrived and was asking for him. Landis suggested that the doctor be asked to come to his room. When Stanford appeared, Landis gave him definite orders in the form of requests. The doctor went upstairs. Landis finished dressing and crossed to Bernard’s room, where he found the older detective just putting on his coat.
They went together to the deserted library. Here the doctor joined them about half an hour later.
“I’ve dressed Graham’s wound,” he said. “It’s doing very nicely. There’s no fever this morning, though he may have a little, later in the day. No need for a nurse.”
“That’s excellent,” replied Landis. “What about Mrs. Graham, Doctor?”
Doctor Stanford looked curiously from one detective to the other.
“She was in bed,” he told them slowly. “I inquired about her burn and asked her to let me see it, explaining that there is always a certain danger of infection. She said it was nothing but finally consented to my looking at it.”
“Well?” Landis spoke dryly to hide his eagerness.
“The burn is near her spine on the small of her back. A little above and to the left of it there is an L-shaped scar, entirely healed, evidently not at all recent but deep and distinct. I asked her about it. She did not even know that it was there. She does not remember having hurt herself there.”
“That’s curious, isn’t it?” said Landis casually. “All right, Doctor. Thank you. There’s nothing to fear from the burn, you say?”
“Nothing at all—from the burn,” replied the doctor.