She rose from her chair, a smile half contemptuous half amused upon her charming face.
“You don’t believe me. Wait a moment, and I will convince you.”
She left the room, returning after a moment’s absence.
“Follow me and see for yourself,” she said coldly, and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the room in which they had been talking.
“Look here,” she pointed to the bed. “He is asleep; I gave him a composing draught an hour ago.”
Johnson looked. A man of about thirty-five, bearing a remarkable likeness to herself, was lying on his side, his hand supporting his head. The worn, drawn features spoke of pain and suffering from which, for the moment, he was relieved.
The detective stole from the room on tiptoe, followed by Lady Wrenwyck. “You know Mr Monkton by sight, I presume? Have you seen enough? If so, I beg you to relieve me of your presence and your insulting suspicions.” She pointed to the stairs with an imperious hand.
Johnson had never felt a bigger fool in his life—he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him.
“I humbly apologise,” he faltered, and sneaked down the stairs, feeling like a whipped mongrel.