“I—there's a letter Mrs. Erskine has which Rob never wrote—someone's deceived her all these years. He never wrote any of them.” She tried to speak coherently. Pointer pressed her arm soothingly. “I know. Don't you worry, Miss West. You let Carter take you home and sleep this off till he calls for you in the morning.” “But Mrs. Erskine—those horrible men—Mrs. Erskine——” “She's quite safe now. Watts is in the cabin. I shall stay with her, and when Carter has seen you safely into Madame Secret's hands at my hotel—she's plenty of empty rooms—he'll join me, and between us Mrs. Erskine will be well taken care of, don't you think so yourself?” Christine could not think yet. Her mind could only give out the impressions made on it while it was still working normally before she had taken the drug. She drank some more coffee at Carter's urgence. “Are we making for _Californie_? Surely we ought to be there by now.” “Californie, eh? Why Californie?” asked Pointer. “Mrs. Erskine's friend—no, not a friend,—a man she knows—a detective—lives there. We're taking Rob's letter to him—he's very clever, or something. . . .” “You found Robert Erskine's letter when you went to tea at the villa, didn't you?” In vain Carter gave the Chief Inspector a look not to worry Christine just now. Pointer thought it did her as much good to exercise her brains as her lungs, once he saw that she was physically up to the exertion. “Yes. Has she told you? Oh, thank Heaven you both came.” Carter could keep silence no longer. “Christine, darling, who gave you that stuff to drink?” “I didn't drink it. She moved her arm as though it pained her. I——” “What happened when you got back at seven?” asked Pointer. Christine struggled bravely to answer, and what with the coffee and brandy, and her own desire to speak, the effort grew easier after the first broken gasps.