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,"
