“My name, doctor, as I told you over the telephone, is Orpington, and I am attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I have come to ask you certain questions concerning the death of a gentleman who was at one time, I understand, a patient of yours.”
“If you will tell me his name, I will look up his case,” said Gretorex quickly.
“His name was Jervis Lexton, and his death took place last Tuesday in Flat 9 of Duke of Kent Mansion, Kensington.”
“Jervis Lexton was never a patient of mine,” the young man answered firmly; and then he hesitated, and finally added, “He was a friend—I suppose I might even say a great friend.”
“Are you already aware of the circumstances concerning Mr. Jervis Lexton’s death, Dr. Gretorex?”
And then Roger Gretorex told the first of the lies he felt it incumbent on him to tell during this, to him, terrible interview.
“I’ve been in the country for nearly a week, and I only learnt on my return here, this morning, of Mr. Lexton’s death. I am as yet unaware of the circumstances to which I presume I owe your visit.”
He waited a moment, then told the inspector what was indeed the truth:
“I was exceedingly surprised to learn of his death, for I had seen him just before leaving town. Though I thought him far less well than the last time I had been with him, there was nothing to indicate the seriousness of his condition.”
“Yet you told the nurse that you were dismayed by the charge in his appearance?”
“I daresay I did. She thought him distinctly better, I do remember that, and I disagreed with her.”
“You did not ask to see Mr. Lexton, Dr. Gretorex. The nurse tells me your call was on Mrs. Lexton. As that lady was out, Nurse Bradfield, I understand, suggested you should see her patient, as she thought it would cheer him up.”
“That is so, and I was not with him for more than ten minutes.”
“You were, I think, alone with him during that time?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You went down to the country immediately after seeing him?”
“Yes. I went to my home in the country the same afternoon, and, as I told you just now, I only came back this morning.”
“Mr. Jervis Lexton died during the evening of the day you saw him—that is, on Tuesday, the 16th of November. His regular medical attendant, Dr. Berwick, was not satisfied as to the cause of death. A postmortem was held on the Thursday, and revealed the fact that Lexton’s death was due to a large dose of arsenic administered some hours before death. According to Nurse Bradfield, you, Dr. Gretorex, were the last person, apart from herself and, I believe, the cook, who saw him alive. That is why I am here.”
Gretorex stared at the speaker in silence; and, gradually, all the colour ebbed from his face.
In spite of himself the inspector felt sorry for the young man. He told himself that Roger Gretorex evidently saw the game was up. Still, the doctor looked the sort of chap who would put up a fight for it.
Inspector Orpington made an almost imperceptible sign to the sergeant he had brought with him, and the man at once quietly left the room.
Orpington got up and looked out of the window until he saw his sergeant in the street outside. Then he turned and said to Gretorex:
“I sent my sergeant out of the room, doctor, because I am obliged now to ask you a question which I thought you would prefer to have put to you privately. You were, I understand, a friend of Mrs. Lexton’s as well as a friend of her husband?”
“I was on terms of friendship with them both,” and his face turned deeply red.
“But you saw much more of Mrs. Lexton than you did of her husband?”
This was a bow drawn at a venture, and it brought down the quarry.
“I sometimes escorted Mrs. Lexton to a picture gallery, and now and again we went to a theatre together. But—” he waited a moment, and the colour ebbed from his face. Though what he was going to say was true, he hated saying it—“Mr. and Mrs. Lexton always seemed on the best of terms together.”
“So I understand. But I am not seeking information as to the relations of Mr. and Mrs. Lexton. What I wish to suggest, without offence, is that you, Dr. Gretorex, would have liked to have been on closer terms of friendship with Mrs. Lexton than she thought it right to allow? I will be frank with you—Mrs. Lexton has admitted as much.”
A burning flush again rose to Gretorex’s dark face. Poor Ivy! Poor, foolish little darling! He did not feel the slightest feeling of anger with her. He only felt a choking sensation of dismay. Whatever had possessed her to say such a thing?
He answered, speaking quietly, passionlessly, “Mrs. Lexton is a very attractive woman, and a beautiful woman. It is difficult to be with her without feeling inclined to—well—” and as he hesitated, the older man smiled.
“To make love to her? I absolutely agree, Dr. Gretorex. Though she was naturally very much upset when I saw her this morning, I thought Mrs. Lexton one of the most engaging, as well as one of the best-looking, young ladies I had ever come across.”
Poor Gretorex! He would have liked to have struck Inspector Orpington across the face, and yet his own words had called up the look that had so grossly offended him on the other’s countenance, and had also provoked his remark.
“Do you admit, Dr. Gretorex, that you were very much attracted to this lady?”
“You put me in a difficult position; but I admit that perhaps I did say one or two foolish things to her.”
He was wondering, with a feeling of agonising anxiety, whether Ivy had kept his letters.
“Did Mrs. Lexton ever by chance come here, to 6
