“With Mrs Chetwode.”
The light died from her face. She swayed slightly, and I saw that she gripped the edge of the little glass-topped table to steady herself.
Then her features relaxed into a sickly smile, and she managed to stammer—
“You are awfully clever, Doctor, to be aware of all these things. Is it clairvoyance—thought-reading, or what?”
“Those who have secrets should be careful not to betray them,” I responded ambiguously.
“Then if I have betrayed myself, perhaps you will tell me something more of equal interest.”
“No,” I answered. “I have no desire to make any experiments. In this matter your cousin’s life is at stake. It will be, at least, humane of you if you place me in possession of all the facts you know regarding the dastardly attempt upon her.”
“I tell you that I know nothing.”
“Nothing beyond what?” I said very gravely.
Again she was silent. I watched the inanimate body of the woman I loved, but saw no change. In what manner that state of coma had been produced I knew not, and I was in deadly fear that the last breath would leave the body before the arrival of Hoefer, the great German doctor whose lectures at Guy’s had first aroused within me a desire to become a medico-legist. There was, I knew, but one man in all the world who could diagnose those symptoms, and it was Hoefer. I only prayed that he might not be out of town.