“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.”
“Ah! Good-looking fellow, is he?”
“Oh, yes. He is very big and handsome.”
“And Miss Bolton liked him. Well, well.” Reggie understood now why poor Birdie Bolton had been dreaming dreams of nights.
“Yes,” said May Weston faintly. “Oh, it’s a shame! But I must tell. She thought he came to see her, but—”
“But it was really to see you. Now, let’s get back to the coffee.”
“He came last night. We were so gay. Miss Bolton—oh, poor Birdie!”
“We can’t undo that, my dear. Let’s do what we can for her. Did he stay late?”
“Rather. I don’t know. I was sleepy. But Birdie was so gay. And then—and then he went away and Birdie began to talk about him. I don’t know how it happened. She said something—and I felt I just had to tell her—I told her he had proposed to me. And then she was furious. Oh, have you ever seen her in one of her rages? She was terrible. She said dreadful things. And I—I felt as if I couldn’t do anything at all. I was dazed and faint and just sat. I know she hit me.”
“I saw the bruise,” Reggie said gently, looking at the blue mark on her neck.
“Then she stormed out of the room, and—oh, doctor, I don’t know—perhaps I fainted—it was as if I was all lead in that chair. I thought I was asleep. And then it was like a horrible, horrible dream—I saw her being killed. She was on the sofa, and someone was hitting at her. Oh, doctor, did I do it? Was it a dream? Did I really do it?”
“You saw—or you dreamed—who was it struck her in your dream?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was just like a dream when you can’t tell. I know it was Birdie. But was it me killed her?”
The door was flung open. The detective inspector strode in. “May Weston?” He was more the policeman than ever.
Reggie stood up. “How civil you are!” he said.
“You make yourself very busy, don’t you?” The inspector glared. “Don’t you interfere with me. May Weston—I shall charge you with the murder of your mistress, Birdie Bolton. Get up off that bed now.”
“He’s forgotten the rest of his part—‘anything you say may be used in evidence against you,’ Miss Weston. So you’ll say nothing, please.”
The inspector grew red and puffed, and advanced upon Reggie. “Here, you—you clear out of this. You’re obstructing me in—”
“Is it possible?” Reggie drawled. “Well, it isn’t necessary, anyway,” and he left the inspector still swelling.
It is fair to him to add, what he has since protested, that he never liked May Weston. Pussycat is his name for her, and he is not fond of cats.
From her room he went to the telephone in the hall, and there the inspector, still rather flushed, found him again.
“And what might you be doing now, if you please?” said the inspector, with constabulary sarcasm.
“Oh, I’m talking to Miss Bolton’s solicitors. Hadn’t you thought of talking to Miss Bolton’s solicitors?”
“Never you mind what I thought of. Don’t you use that telephone again. I won’t have it.”
“Oh, yes, you will. Now I’m going to talk to Superintendent Bell.” The inspector was visibly startled. For Superintendent Bell was near the summit of the Criminal Investigation Department. “Any objection? No? How nice of you. …” He conferred with the telephone, and at length: “Dr. Fortune. Yes. Oh, is that you, Bell? So glad. I wish you’d
