"About me, of course. No, about themselves. That is what they came for. I'm a little muddled. They want to know what destiny has in store for them. And only I can tell them. Only I, Lydia Keats —»
"May I use your telephone, Miss Keats?"
"Certainly. It is in the cupboard place in the hall. One of the new colored kind. The telephone, not the cupboard. What was I saying?"
Grant said to Williams, "Ask them to send Reynolds around at once."
"Is that the painter? I shall be glad to meet him. He was born to greatness. It is not a matter of application, or mixing pigments, you know. It is having the matter in you. And that the stars arrange. You must let me do a horoscope for you. You are a Leo person. Very attractive people. Kingly born. I have been sorry sometimes that I was not August born. But Aries people are leaders. Talkative, too, I'm afraid." She giggled. "I do talk a lot they tell me. Chatterbox, they called me as a child."
Chapter 26
Half an hour later Reynolds, the police surgeon, gave the screaming, raving thing that had been Lydia Keats a morphine injection so that they might remove her to the station in some sort of decency.
Grant and Williams, standing in the door, watching the disappearing ambulance, found no words.
"Well," Grant said at length, pulling himself together, "I suppose I'd better get along and see Champneis."
"The people that made the laws of this country ought to be shot," Williams said with sudden venom.