“Nothing, Inspector. She was merely pointed out to me as one of the strangest figures in the hall. Her husband, I understand, is an art expert—”
“He was!” said Dunbar, closing the book sharply. “He died this afternoon; and a paragraph announcing his death appears in the newspaper which we found in the victim’s fur coat!”
“But how—”
“It was the only paragraph on the half-page folded outwards which was in any sense personal. I am greatly indebted to you, Miss Cumberly; every hour wasted on a case like this means a fresh plait in the rope around the neck of the wrong man!”
Helen Cumberly grew slowly quite pallid.
“Good night,” she said; and bowing to the detective and to the surgeon, she prepared to depart.
Mr. Hilton touched Dr. Cumberly’s arm, as he, too, was about to retire.
“May I hope,” he whispered, “that you will return and give me the benefit of your opinion in making out my report?”
Dr. Cumberly glanced at his daughter; and seeing her to be perfectly composed:—“For the moment, I have formed no opinion, Mr. Hilton,” he said, quietly, “not having had an opportunity to conduct a proper examination.”
Hilton bent and whispered, confidentially, in the other’s ear:—
“She was drugged!”
The innuendo underlying the words struck Dr.
