Grindlay flew to her side and with difficulty gripped her hands. But she seemed possessed of demon strength, and even the detective, muscular and athletic as he was, found he had a hard task to hold her down.
“Do you know her?” he gasped at last, turning to me. “Who is she?”
“An old friend,” I answered, with poignant sorrow. “Her name is Dora; she is younger daughter of Lady Stretton.”
“Lady Stretton—Stretton,” the detective repeated thoughtfully. “The name is familiar. Ah! I remember. The lady who benefits so largely by the murdered man’s will is eldest daughter of her ladyship, isn’t she?”
I nodded in the affirmative, but the violent struggles of the would-be suicide interrupted our conversation, and our combined efforts were necessary in order to prevent her from accomplishing her purpose.
The melancholy fact could not be disguised that Dora, whose beauty had been so frequently commented upon by Society journals, and whose appearance in ballrooms since she “came out” had never failed to cause a sensation, was actually insane. The bright fire of madness was in her eyes as she wildly accused me of unknown crimes. She did not address me by name, but evidently in her hallucination believed me to be an enemy of whom she had just cause for the bitterest hatred. When I tried to seize her hands she shrank from me as if my contact stung her, and when I gripped her determinedly she fought and bit with a strength of which I had never believed a woman capable.
In the fierce straggle the lamp was nearly overturned, and at length Grindlay, finding that all attempts to calm her proved futile, slipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and with a murmur of apology for treating any friend of mine, and especially a lady, with such indignity, he locked them upon her slender wrists.
“It is the only way we can manage her,” he said. “We must, however, be careful of her head.”
Already she was swaying her head from side to side, uttering strings of wild, incoherent words, and after brief consultation it was arranged that the detective should call up his assistant, who had remained on guard below, and we should then convey the unfortunate girl to her home.
After two shrill blasts upon the inspector’s whistle we were quickly joined by his assistant, who, without betraying any surprise at this discovery, recognised the position of affairs at a glance, and at once held Dora’s head, in order to prevent her injuring herself.