A violent shudder, as though it were she herself who felt the symptoms, went through Ann's body. Time seemed to rush on while they tried to arrest it.
"I'm all right," she said steadily, and drew the dressing robe closer about her with a hard, bright look in her eyes. "What do we do?"
"Do you know Dr. Nithsdale's telephone number?"
"Nine-seven-o-one. He's our doctor."
"I'll go down and phone him. You run up and rout out Mrs. Propper and Daisy. Tell them to prepare… no, blast it, an emetic's no good if the poison wasn't taken through the mouth!" His head was whirling. "I wish to heaven I knew what to do in the meantime. I don't know what we ought to do. Anyway, rout them out. Hurry!"
"I'll do it," said Ann calmly. "And I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."
There was no time to argue over this. Muttering
"nine-seven-o-one, nine-seven-o-one," convinced that he would forget it by the time he reached the phone, he raced downstairs.
Where was the telephone anyway? Stop they always spoke of it as being in the back drawing room. He was not anxious to face that gruesome object sitting so comfortably, with the Tatler across its lap and the bloodstain down its ear to the collar. But it had to be done.
The telephone was on a little round table by the windows, almost within touching-distance of Hubert. With an unsteady finger Courtney dialed the number and got it right. The ringing-tone buzzed interminably in his head while he perched on the edge of a little chair, staring at the phone. It had rung for a full minute, which to Courtney seemed interminable, before Dr. Nithsdale's voice answered.
When he had explained, Dr. Nithsdale's language was sulphurous.
"And also," Courtney added, "come prepared to deal with somebody who's got a bash over the back of the head, probably—"
"Lad, are you clean daft?"
"No, no, no! There's a lunatic in the house tonight. Just do what I ask. But, Doctor!" "Aye?"
"If the strychnine was administered with a hypodermic, what can I do about it in the meantime?"
"Naething. And it isna likely I can either. Guid-by."
The receiver went up with a bang.
Courtney pressed his hands to a throbbing head. 'Beside him the rain was spattering in from the open window, so that bright needles stung the floor and drenched the curtains. No other sound disturbed the house.
He swung round to face Hubert, and got what was perhaps his worst shock of the night — at least, so far. Hubert, still in the same position, had not stirred. But his eyes were wide open, and they were looking straight into Courtney's from not six feet away.
"Good evening," Hubert said in an agreeable if slightly furred and wandering voice. "I seem to have fallen asleep. Most extraordinary. Most extraordinary."
Nineteen
Yet it was not Hubert Fane in his right senses. Courtney realized this when he noted the expression of the eyes.
He remembered a friend of his who had Buffered concussion of the brain from being struck by the door of a railway carriage. After being knocked out, this friend had got up assuring everyone that nothing was wrong with him, and had gone about his business until he collapsed many hours later.
Hubert, grotesquely neat except for the stain of dried blood down his face, blinked and touched a hand to his forehead.
"Extraordinary," he continued in the same buzzy, benevolent voice. The Tatler slid off his knees to the floor. "Do you know I cannot remember—"
"Steady, sir!"
"May I ask, Mr. Courtney, how you came here? And would you do me the esthetic favor of removing that extremely disreputable coat and hat?"
"Look here-"
"My head does indeed feel excessively odd. Not painful, but odd. I surely cannot have taken that much brandy after dinner."
Courtney felt his throat grow dry. "Who," he said, "was last in this room with you, Mr. Fane?" A look of mild wonder overspread Hubert's face. ~ "Now there," he replied, running his fingers lightly over his forehead, "is another remarkable thing. I cannot recall how I came here. The last thing I distinctly remember is sitting in the library reading the evening paper. This room has not associations so pleasant that I should sit in it by choice. I think it would soothe me to go and bathe my eyes. Yes, I must go and bathe my eyes."
"Hold on, Mr. Fane!" cried Courtney, as Hubert got to his feet and stood swaying on his spidery legs. "Don't get up! Stay there! You've been hurt."
"I have been what?"
"You've been hurt."
"My dear sir, what nonsense you talk," said Hubert mildly, and went over flat on his face on the floor.
Courtney looked round in desperation, wondering what to do here. He was in time to see another person looking at him.
Through the open window and the blowing curtains, stung with rain, projected the head and shoulders of Sir Henry Merrivale. H.M. was swathed round in a transparent oilskin with a hood, which covered everything including his hat, and was not a sight for weak nerves. Out of this he glared through misted spectacles.
"What's goin' on here?" he demanded. "Who put this ladder up to the window?"
"I did. I had to get in somehow." Courtney could have yelled with relief. "Come on in and tell us what's to be done."
"Oh. I thought…" H.M. broke off, and sniffed. He pointed a malignant forefinger. "What's wrong with him?"
"You tell me."
Though it was a near thing. H.M. did manage to squeeze through the window. He flapped among the curtains and almost tore them down from their rods. He landed on the floor with a thud that shook the ceiling. But he did manage to get in. Trailing water and oilskin, he waddled across to the prone figure and bent over it.
"Concussion," he said, after examination. "And a bad one. Lord love a duck!"
"Never mind him," urged Courtney, not very sympathetically for Hubert. "Go upstairs. Mrs. Fane's been attacked again. The murderer gave her another dose of strychnine in a hypodermic, and Dr. Nithsdale says—"
There was more bumping behind him. First Masters, and then Inspector Agnew, pushed through the window and dropped inside. A mist arose as they shook themselves. Bright puddles of rainwater ran and glistened on the hardwood.
"Don't anybody ever answer the door at this place?" questioned an exasperated chief inspector. "We've been hammering at the front door for the past ten minutes. The bell won't work."
"Don't you hear what I'm saying?" shouted Courtney. "It's Mrs. Fane. Strychnine again! I've phoned the doctor. But somebody sneaked in while Ann was out of the room, and gave her a hypodermic full of it. She's in bad shape."
''Is she, now?" said H.M. tonelessly.
It took a little while for this to penetrate into Courtney's mind. It took a little while for him to understand the implications of H.M.'s casual, uninterested tone. And even then he did not understand it.
"H.M., are you crazy? Are you all crazy? Why don't you do something? She must have got the whole hypodermic full of it. When I pressed the handle of the thing, there was only a drop left. I touched it to my tongue, and it was bitter—"
"So," said H.M., peering round over his shoulder out of the dripping oilskin. "You touched it to your tongue, did you?"
"Yes."
"Uh-huh. Did it make the tip of your tongue feel numb afterwards?" "No."
"Sure of that, son?" "Yes, quite sure."
"Then," said H.M., turning back again, "it wasn't strychnine."
There was a silence, except for the sluicing rain. Masters and Agnew stood motionless, a stuffed expression on their faces.
Courtney stared at them wildly.