“About seven last evening I went to see Miss Prince for a few minutes and, while I was away, from what I can make out Mr. Garlett came up to sit with Mrs. Garlett before dressing for dinner. Unfortunately some forced strawberries which Miss Prince had brought in the morning had been taken up and left in the corridor outside. Mr. Garlett seems to have brought them in here—I suppose to show them to Mrs. Garlett. She said she would like to eat some of them then, before her supper. He stupidly allowed her to do so, and she ate them all—a plateful—with probably a lot of sugar added. So of course I wasn’t surprised when she called out to me about two hours ago that she felt ill!”

“Did she take anything after the strawberries?” asked the doctor.

“Of course she did. She began to feel hungry about 8.30 and then she had her supper—a nice bit of grilled fish and some stewed apples. But her supper didn’t do her any good on the top of the strawberries——”

“I don’t suppose it did,” agreed the doctor dryly. “And now let me have a look at her——”

As he took a step toward the bed Agatha Cheale suddenly put her right hand on his arm.

Surprised, he stopped, and she whispered hesitatingly: “I’ve been wondering—I suppose you wouldn’t like to have a second opinion?”

He shook his head decidedly, secretly very much surprised that her nerve should so far have given way. What good 37could a second opinion do in a case of severe indigestion? Why, the idea was absurd! Then he reminded himself that Agatha Cheale was not a trained nurse—in spite of her war experiences.

37

He walked quickly across to the sick woman’s four-post bed, lifted the heavy, stiff, silk-lined calendered chintz curtain, and then turned on the light in a reading lamp which stood on a small pedestal table.

Mrs. Garlett was lying on her back in the middle of the big bed, and Dr. Maclean, taking up the lamp, leant for a long, long moment over his patient.

Then he turned, with a blanched face, and still unconsciously holding the lamp in his hand, to the woman who stood waiting over by the dressing-table, the light beating down on her tired drawn face.

“She’s not asleep—she’s dead,” he said quietly.

“Dead! Not dead? Oh, don’t say she’s dead!”

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