"Bonsoir, Madame! Bonsoir, Monsieur! I hope I have not kept you long. I came as quickly as I could. This is the patient, I suppose?"

He spoke in excellent English, and had a brisk and businesslike air. He was a small and dapper man with ginger hair cut en brosse, and red-brown eyes behind thick glasses. Setting down his bag on a chair, he cast a professional glance at the prostrate figure under the pink quilt, then running his eyes over the room he discovered Dr. Sartorius. At once a look of puzzled recognition, tinged with deference, came over his sharp little face. He bowed stiffly.

"Ah, doctor, how do you do?" he greeted his colleague in a slightly diffident tone. "Am I to understand that … may I ask if I am intruding, or…" and he broke off, obviously uncertain as to the position of things.

Sartorius rose and stood stolidly beside his chair.

"Not at all, doctor," he replied coolly. "Mr. Clifford will no doubt explain why you were sent for. There appears to be a good reason."

Expectantly the little man turned to Roger, who, seeing the necessity of some explanation to satisfy him on a point of professional etiquette, said quietly:

"This lady, doctor, is a nurse who has been employed in our family until my father's death a few days ago. After the funeral she left the house, then this evening she returned suddenly in a very strange and excited state. A few minutes after she entered the room here she became unconscious. The reason Dr. Sartorius does not attempt to do anything for her is that when he did try she became much worse. It seems that she has taken a marked antipathy to him, we don't know why."

The Frenchman raised his bushy red brows.

"Ah, ah?" he commented. "May I inquire if you had any knowledge of this antipathy before she went away?"

"I had," replied Sartorius heavily. "I mentioned the fact to Lady Clifford. I had begun to suspect at the last that she might be suffering from some rather obscure mental derangement."

"I see, I see! I daresay you have come to no conclusion as to her present state, doctor?"

"I have not had an adequate opportunity of judging."

"Yes, yes, I quite understand the difficulty you were placed in. Very annoying, very annoying! With your permission, then, I will try to see what it is all about."

During this polite interchange Roger had difficulty in restraining his impatience. It seemed possible that Esther might perish while these two medical men discussed the situation. He watched tensely while the little doctor got out various instruments and bottles, changed his thick pince-nez for a pair of spectacles with tortoiseshell rims exactly matching his eyebrows, and finally proceeded with a maddening deliberation to study the patient, listening at her heart, feeling her pulse, turning back her eyelids. At last he raised a grave face.

"How long has this condition lasted?" he asked, frowning.

"About twenty minutes, I should say."

The Frenchman pursed his lips and shook his head slightly as he proceeded with the examination. Roger grew more and more alarmed. Thinking to facilitate matters, he pointed out the holes in the coat-sleeve.

"What do you make of those, doctor?" he demanded.

The bristling brows rose in astonishment.

"Ah, ah?" their owner exclaimed, sliding the two sleeves deftly off the shoulder and scrutinising the red dots on the skin, round which a bruise was beginning to form. "Tiens, tiens, this begins to be more clear. Doctor," he said, turning to Sartorius, "had you any suspicion that this young woman was addicted to the use of a drug?"

Roger glanced searchingly at the man by the fireplace. The sallow face showed no alteration whatever.

"I admit I did not come to that conclusion during the time she was here," the doctor made answer, "but her conduct at times might have suggested it. Those marks enlightened me."

In spite of his resolution to restrain himself, Roger took a step forward angrily.

"Do you mean to insinuate that she gave herself those injections—through both sleeves?" he burst out.

Sartorius turned slightly away without replying. Dr. Bousquet shrugged his shoulders and removing his spectacles wiped them carefully on a purple silk handkerchief.

"It would be unusual, monsieur, certainly, but not impossible. There is no accounting for the vagaries of these victims. Whatever the case, she is under the influence o£ morphia now. It appears to be morphia," he added cautiously.

"Then if she is," declared Roger, losing all control, "that man over there is responsible for it. He gave her the last of those injections not a quarter of an hour ago."

There is no describing the effect of this bombshell. There was shocked silence, during which both Miss Clifford and the little doctor regarded the speaker with a mixture of embarrassment and incredulous concern.

"Roger! My dear! Do you know what you are saying?" the old lady whispered in pained remonstrance.

Chagrined that he had committed himself so incautiously, Roger turned and stared down at Esther, biting his lip. Plainly this was not the time for straightforward speech. Besides, he caught a glance of sympathy mingled with scorn for himself exchanged between the two physicians.

"Never mind how she got any of the injections," he amended hastily, addressing Bousquet in a low voice; "all that concerns us now is how to save her. It was unwise of me to speak as I did."

The doctor's silence and a touch of asperity in his manner conveyed a definite reproof. Shaking his head dubiously, he put his spectacles into their case and blew his nose on the purple handkerchief.

"Well, Mr. Clifford," he said at last, "the best thing we can do at the moment is to get this young person undressed and into a bed. I can then ascertain if there are other hypodermic needle marks on her, and perhaps come to one or two other decisions about which I am doubtful. Can this be arranged?"

"Certainly. I will give orders at once to have a room got ready for her."

He rang the bell, then, returning, put a direct question to the
Frenchman.

"Tell me, doctor, do you consider her in danger?"

The little man glanced towards the inert figure doubtfully.

"It is difficult, extremely difficult, to say anything with certainty until the effect of the drug has worn off. She appears to be suffering from severe nervous exhaustion as well as from morphia, which complicates matters. It also seems likely that she has gone without food for some time. Her vitality is very low, very low indeed—although I cannot say there appears to be anything organically wrong with her heart."

Again Roger visualised the dreadful picture of the girl wandering, out of her head, through the streets. It fitted in so aptly with this suggestion of her being without food and in an exhausted state. It was with an effort that he thrust aside the morbid idea to speak to Chalmers.

"Miss Rowe's room is ready for her, sir," the butler replied quietly. "I took the liberty of having it done, sir, thinking you'd want to put her to bed. Shall I lend a hand to carry her in, sir?"

It was an easy matter to transfer Esther from the couch to her former quarters. Roger remained in the hall within reach of the boudoir, and spoke once more to Dr. Bousquet before returning to resume his self-constituted guard of Sartorius.

"I think I ought to tell you, doctor, that before she became unconscious she made a very startling statement. We cannot tell whether there is any truth in what she said or not—but I may say that a great deal depends on the establishment of her sanity. I suppose you have no way of telling——?"

A pleasantly contemptuous smile hovered in the red-brown eyes behind the thick glasses.

"Monsieur, persons who form the morphia habit become, as you are aware, notoriously untruthful. They invent extraordinary stories, make incredible—and often convincing—accusations. I do not of course know anything about this young woman, but——" And he left the sentence unfinished.

It was a diplomatic way of damning in advance any evidence Esther might give. The man, on his own statement, knew nothing, had no prejudice for or against. He was merely voicing a medical fact.

With a mind torn by fresh doubts Roger walked slowly back into the boudoir. He could not help beginning to be afraid that he was acting foolishly. The high-handed manner in which he had dealt with his stepmother and Sartorius might yet land him in most unpleasant difficulties. Obviously he had no right to restrain their movements, and the fact that he had actually threatened Sartorius was sufficient to bring down punishment upon him. Still, he knew in his heart that if he had the thing to do over again he would behave in much the same way. Certainly he felt sure that whether they were malefactors or completely innocent, both ThÉrÈse and the doctor had acted in a manner to arouse suspicion.

As he entered the room, from the opposite door Aline approached him. Her black gimlet eyes surveyed him with a baleful glare as with a distinct touch of irony she inquired if it were permitted that she should bring Madame something to eat.

"Naturally; bring Madame whatever she requires," he replied indifferently.

With a toss of the head she departed, hostility in every inch of her stiff body.

Finding it a disagreeable matter to remain in the same room with the phlegmatic figure still seated in the bergÈre by the fire, Roger crossed to one of the French windows, and opening the casement stepped outside on the narrow balcony. There was a misty drizzle of rain which cooled his burning face, the air was mild enough, but saturated with moisture. The leaves of the trees glistened with heavy drops. Along the balcony to the right showed the light from ThÉrÈse's room in a bar across the wet stone. Her curtains had not been drawn, and for a few seconds he could see her silhouette framed in the window…. What was she thinking? what was going on in that brain, which he now felt he had never understood? Was it possible she was guilty of the cold-blooded act Esther had accused her of? His mind could not yet take in the enormity of it, the thought was too staggering. It scarcely seemed credible that so ethereal, so delicate an exterior could hide the consciousness of crime. It was far easier to believe there was some hideous mistake about it all, that Esther, if not deranged, had been misled by appearances…. What appearances? What could have given her this idea? He resolved to question Chalmers at once, to find out what he knew. Esther had certainly told the old man something which had profoundly impressed him, that much was evident.

He found Chalmers in the hall, on his way downstairs. Motioning him to approach, Roger spoke to him in a voice cautiously subdued.

"Let me hear, Chalmers, exactly what Miss Rowe said to you when you let her in. What did you think of her—how did she strike you?"

"You saw for yourself what she looked like, sir," replied the old man quietly, yet with an undercurrent of excitement that was not lost on Roger. "I almost took her for a ghost. She fell into the hall when I opened the door, hardly able to stand, she was, sir. I put out my hand to steady her. 'Lord, miss,' I said, 'where have you come from?' I said. She gave me a sort of wild look, sir, then she says, half-choking like, 'Chalmers, where's Mr. Roger? Has the doctor bandaged his hand yet?'"

"Did she ask you that straight off?" demanded Roger, frowning in deep thought.

"Yes, sir, she did. I believed as you did that she was quite off her head. I told her you were in this room with Miss Clifford, and that I thought the doctor was with you, though I wasn't sure. She went as white as a sheet, sir; I was afraid she was going to drop down, but she didn't. She took another sort of spurt, as you may say, and was up those steps so fast she left me behind. I heard her say, 'He's trying to kill him; he's going to give him lock-jaw, and everybody'll believe it's an accident.'"

"Lock-jaw!"

Complete bewilderment was in Roger's face as he repeated the word in a whisper.

"Yes, sir, I was as astonished as you. It seemed as though she must be raving, but then when she said…"

He was interrupted by a sudden peal at the doorbell, loud and long, supplemented by violent blows of the brass knocker. Both men jumped at the sound, then exchanged glances of puzzled apprehension. Who at this particular moment was in such a hurry to enter?

"Beg pardon, sir, I'd better see who that is, I expect."

"Yes, yes, Chalmers, you can finish telling me afterwards."

Revolving in his mind the astounding information he had just received, Roger reËntered the sitting-room. The ghastly audacity of the idea that Sartorius had a moment ago been on the very point of introducing the germs of lock-jaw—tetanus to give it its proper name—into the wound on his hand seemed on the face of it beyond the bounds of possibility. Why, what man would dare to do such a thing? The risk of it! … Yet was there so great a risk? Hadn't the doctor repeatedly warned him of the danger he was running? Why, if there was nothing in it, did he examine him so carefully just now, paying special attention to his face and jaw? It had certainly given the impression that he suspected the beginning of certain tell-tale symptoms. Had he done it in order that later the eye-witnesses could recall every detail and make it appear like a purely accidental seizure? Then that bit of white something which Sartorius had dropped into the fire. It might have been of no importance, yet again…

He looked curiously at the ragged cut on his thumb and barely repressed a shudder. If such a thing was true, by what a narrow margin had he escaped a horrible death…. Across the room the object of his suspicions continued to sit calmly figuring in a notebook, never glancing around. His attitude was a declaration of the fact that the young man behind him was an excitable firebrand, whose behaviour was scarcely worth troubling about. Let him alone, he will come to his senses, that broad, imperturbable back seemed to say….

Suddenly a revulsion swept over Roger. He felt a bit of an ass. Of course there could be no truth in this mad story, such things didn't happen. Though of course if it was entirely fiction, it put Esther in a queer light, however you looked at it. Either it was the result of those "confusional attacks" the doctor had hinted at, or she was, as both doctors now implied, a victim of morphia-mania…. Unthinkable! Esther!

What was this noise outside the door? Confused voices reached him speaking in French, together with the heavy tread of several men, who apparently were tramping up the stairs. The following instant Chalmers threw open the door, his face a study.

"The police, sir," he announced.

Roger sprang to his feet.