I counted the crisp new notes in the privacy of the doctor’s sitting-room, then, locking three of them in my portmanteau, took a cab down to Rowan Road to receive Bob’s congratulations. He was delighted. He sent Mrs Bishop out for a bottle of the best champagne procurable in the neighbourhood, and we drank merrily to my future success. Then, while smoking a cigarette over what remained of the wine, I related to him my strange adventure of the previous night.
He sat listening to my story open-mouthed. Until I had concluded, he uttered no word. Then gravely he exclaimed—
“The affair grows more and more amazing. But now, look here, Dick! Why don’t you take my advice, and drop the affair altogether?”
“Drop it? What do you mean? Remember Beryl!”
“I know,” he answered. “But I can’t help feeling that association with those people is dangerous. They’re a queer lot—a devilishly queer lot!”
“Of course they’re a queer lot,” I said; “but I can’t leave her to their mercy. She’s in deadly peril of her life; they intend to kill her.”
A grave expression was on his face. “Do you think that last night’s curious phenomenon was actually an attempt to kill her?” he inquired.
“Without a doubt.”
“Then, if so, how was it that you all experienced similar symptoms? What’s old Hoefer’s theory?”
“He has none.”