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Chapter III. The Night Of The Tragedy
“DoyouknowwhatIthink?”
“What?”
“Listen!”Ilookedround,theotherswereoutofearshot.Iloweredmyvoicetoawhisper.“Ibelieveshehasbeenpoisoned!I’mcertainDr.Bauersteinsuspectsit.”
“What?”Sheshrankagainstthewall,thepupilsofhereyesdilatingwildly.Then,withasuddencrythatstartledme,shecriedout:“No,no—notthat—notthat!”Andbreakingfromme,fledupthestairs.Ifollowedher,afraidthatshewasgoingtofaint.Ifoundherleaningagainstthebannisters,deadlypale.Shewavedmeawayimpatiently.
“No,no—leaveme.I’dratherbealone.Letmejustbequietforaminuteortwo.Godowntotheothers.”
Iobeyedherreluctantly.JohnandLawrencewereinthedining-room.Ijoinedthem.Wewereallsilent,butIsupposeIvoicedthethoughtsofusallwhenIatlastbrokeitbysaying:
“WhereisMr.Inglethorp?”
Johnshookhishead.
“He’snotinthehouse.”
Oureyesmet.WherewasAlfredInglethorp?Hisabsencewasstrangeandinexplicable.IrememberedMrs.Inglethorp’sdyingwords.Whatlaybeneaththem?Whatmorecouldshehavetoldus,ifshehadhadtime?
Atlastweheardthedoctorsdescendingthestairs.Dr.Wilkinswaslookingimportantandexcited,andtryingtoconcealaninwardexultationunderamannerofdecorouscalm.Dr.Bauersteinremainedinthebackground,hisgravebeardedfaceunchanged.Dr.Wilkinswasthespokesmanforthetwo.HeaddressedhimselftoJohn:
“Mr.Cavendish,Ishouldlikeyourconsenttoapost-mortem.
