Two men bustled in. A hand tapped Reggie’s shoulder. “Now, sir, if you please.” Reggie stood up and confronted a pompous, portly little man. “I am Dr. Fortune,” Reggie said. “Miss Bolton was a patient of mine.” “Was,” said the little man, with emphasis. “She is a case for an expert now, Dr. Fortune.” “That’s why I was examining her,” said Reggie sweetly. The little man laughed. “A general practitioner is not much use to her now. Rather beyond you, isn’t it?” “Well, I’ve not made up my mind,” Reggie said. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” He waved Reggie off, but Reggie did not go. “You’ll only be in our way, you know. We’ll let you know if we want you at the inquest. Just for formal evidence.” Still Reggie did not move. “I am the divisional surgeon, sir,” said the little man loudly. “I was wondering who you were,” Reggie murmured. The little man swung round. “We’ll have the room cleared, inspector,” he said. The detective inspector, who looked more like a policeman than seemed possible, strode heavily forward. “Hope you’re not meaning to give trouble, doctor,” he frowned. “Or I’ll have to take steps.” “Fancy!” Reggie said. “Well, look where you’re going.” He walked across to the window and looked out at the roses. “Clear out, please.” The inspector followed him. “Zeal, all zeal,” Reggie murmured, and went. There were two doors to the room. He did not use that by which they had come, but the other. He happened to know that it opened into Birdie Bolton’s bedroom. 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,” from Flora. A sullen voice, “You can come in,” and in Reggie went. May Weston was a squalid sight. Her natural prettiness, the prettiness of fresh youth, the bloom of pink and white, the grace of full, soft line had all gone from her. She lay a shapeless heap on her bed, her evening dress still on and all crushed and crumpled and awry, her yellow hair half down and tousled, her face of a bluish pallor. “What do you want?” She stared at Reggie heavily.