"She is on the point of a breakdown," Roberts said tersely. "Is your hypodermic ready for use?" "Yes, Doctor." "Then please come to Miss Carter's bedroom: I will meet you there in a few minutes," and taking her acquiescence for granted Roberts hurried to his own room where he had left his bag. Miriam paused in indecision; she had been trained to serve humanity--to care for the sick and to look after the infirm. Was it obligatory upon her to minister to Betty now that she was ill? No, a thousand times, no! From somewhere came the chimes of a clock--one in the morning--Doctor Roberts was powerless to secure other aid in a sick room at that hour and twenty miles from Washington. Miriam walked quietly to her room, where she had her hypodermic syringe, secured it and went direct to Betty. Alexander Nash would find her if she was needed by his wife. Betty looked up at her approach and Miriam was struck by the suffering in her face. In her haste to undress and get into bed she had scattered her clothes on the floor and she had kept on her dressing gown. "It--it's very good of you," she murmured. "I--I--" she paused, at a loss for words. "Doctor Roberts will be here in a moment," answered Miriam quietly. Putting down her hypodermic, she spent the next few minutes arranging the room and adjusting the windows. Betty never took her eyes from her and Miriam was thankful when Roberts knocked on the closed door. Silently Miriam aided him in his examination and her swift deftness won his admiration. As he took the thermometer from Betty Miriam observed a gold chain suspended about her neck. She caught Miriam's glance and drew her dressing gown close about her throat. Miriam prepared the hypodermic, then paused by Roberts' side. "Will you give it?" she said simply, holding the instrument toward the physician, and Roberts grasped her reluctance to administer the opiate. No one in the room was aware that the door had been cautiously opened an inch or two and then as quietly closed. Alan Mason reached the staircase a minute later and stood listening, his head bent. Only the faint tick-tock of the grandfather clock was to be heard. Convinced that he was alone in the hall he made his way noiselessly to the door of the room where Paul Abbott's body had lain until the funeral that afternoon. The door was locked. Alan drew in his breath sharply, hitched at his dark sweater, and glanced down at his "sneakers"; then he crept softly through the darkness of the back hall and disappeared. Roberts looked over at Miriam and then at Betty as he rose and tiptoed to the door. "She will be all right, now," he said. "If you have an opportunity, come in again during the night." He paused and, to Miriam's surprise, held out his hand. "Thank you. Good night."