Call Mr. Fortune. H. C. Bailey
out, please.” The inspector followed him.
“Zeal, all zeal,” Reggie murmured, and went.
There were two doors to the room. He did not use that by which they had come, but the other. He happened to know that it opened into Birdie Bolton’s bedroom.
There was some one in the bedroom. A startled dark face peeped round the screen by the bed. It belonged to a smart lady’s maid.
“Dear me, I thought this was the passage,” Reggie said.
“It is Miss Bolton’s bedroom—poor Miss Bolton.” The maid had a slight foreign accent.
“Of course it is. And you’re her maid, of course. Flora, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, doctor. Ah, you have seen Miss Bolton! You cannot do anything—no?”
“Miss Bolton is dead, Flora.”
“I was so fond of her,” Flora sighed.
“Well, I liked her. I suppose you heard nothing last night?”
“Ah, no. She have sent me to bed. And I sleep so sound.”
Reggie nodded. “It’s a bad business, Flora. Take me to Miss Weston’s room, will you?”
“Miss Weston! Ah!” Flora said, with tragic intensity.
“H’m. You think she——”
“I do not think. I feel,” Flora said.
“It’s a bad habit. Well——”
And Flora led the way. She was a plump woman of some age, but still comely enough in a dark, heavy fashion.
A tap at a door. “It is the doctor, Miss Weston,” from Flora. A sullen voice, “You can come in,” and in Reggie went.
May Weston was a squalid sight. Her natural prettiness, the prettiness of fresh youth, the bloom of pink and white, the grace of full, soft line had all gone from her. She lay a shapeless heap on her bed, her evening dress still on and all crushed and crumpled and awry, her yellow hair half down and tousled, her face of a bluish pallor.
“What do you want?” She stared at Reggie heavily.
“Well, this won’t do, will it?” Reggie smiled cheerfully and sat down beside the bed. “So why are you like this?”
“Haven’t you heard?” she cried.
“I’ve heard and seen,” Reggie said. “I can’t do any more there. But perhaps I can here.” He began to feel her pulse.
“I’m not ill.”
“Well, you never know.” He let her wrist go and bent over her. “Sleep rather sound, don’t you?”
“Oh!” She shuddered. “Why do you look at me like that?”
Reggie bent suddenly closer, and as suddenly sat up again. Then he laughed. “Like what, my dear?”
She stared at him and her lip quivered. “You—you! Oh, do you think I can be mad?”
Reggie shook his head. “Let’s begin quite at the beginning. Let’s preserve absolute calm. You dined with Miss Bolton last night alone? After dinner you went to her boudoir? That would be about nine?”
“Yes, yes. Mr. Ford came just after the coffee.”
“Ah! And who is Mr. Ford?”
May Weston blushed abundantly. “We—he has been here a good deal,” she stammered. “Oh, Dr. Fortune, it isn’t his fault.”
“Young or old, rich or poor—what is he?”
“Of course he’s young. I suppose he’s rich. His father makes engines or something in Leeds, and he is in the London office.”
“Sounds solid,” Reggie agreed. “And why does Mr. Ford call at nine p.m.?”
Miss Weston’s blushes were renewed. “He has been very often,” she said, and wrung her hands. “I shall have to tell, doctor, shan’t I? Yes. He met Miss Bolton once at supper and then he used to come here.”
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