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“How?”
“We might run along to the Sanatorium now and ask the Matron.”
“She may think it rather odd.”
Sir Charles laughed.
“You leave it to me,” he said.
They turned aside from the drive and walked in the direction of the Sanatorium.
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
“What about you, Cartwright? Does anything strike you at all? Arising out of our visit to the house, I mean.”
Sir Charles answered slowly.
“Yes, there is something—the devil of it is, I can’t remember what.”
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him in surprise. The other frowned.
“How can I explain? There was something—something which at the moment struck me as wrong—as unlikely—only—I hadn’t the time to think about it then. I put it aside in my own mind.”
“And now you can’t remember what it was?”
“No—only that at some moment I said to myself, ‘That’s odd.’”
“Was it when we were questioning the servants? Which servant?”
“I tell you I can’t remember. And the more I think the less I shall remember…If I leave it alone, it may come back to me.”
They came into view of the Sanatorium, a big white modern building, divided from the park by palings. There was a gate through which they passed, and they rang the front doorbell and asked for the Matron.
The Matron, when she came, was a tall, middle-aged woman, with an intelligent face and a capable manner. Sir Charles she clearly knew by name as a friend of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.
Sir Charles explained that he had just come back from abroad, had been horrified to hear of his friend’s death and of the terrible suspicions entertained, and had been up to the house to learn as many details as he could. The Matron spoke in moving terms of the loss Sir Bartholomew would be to them, and of his fine career as a doctor. Sir Charles professed himself anxious to know what was going to happen to the Sanatorium. The Matron explained that Sir Bartholomew had had two partners, both capable doctors, one was in residence at the Sanatorium.
“Bartholomew was very proud of this place, I know,” said Sir Charles.
“Yes, his treatments were a great success.”
“Mostly nerve cases, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That reminds me—fellow I met out at Monte had some kind of relation coming here. I forget her name now—odd sort of name—Rushbridger—Rusbrigger—something like that.”
“Mrs. de Rushbridger, you mean?”
“That’s it. Is she here now?”
“Oh, yes. But I’m afraid she won’t be able to see you—not for some time yet. She’s having a very strict rest cure.” The Matron smiled just a trifle archly. “No letters, no exciting visitors….”
“I say, she’s not very bad, is she?”
“Rather a bad nervous breakdown—lapses of memory, and severe nervous exhaustion. Oh, we shall get her right in time.”
The Matron smiled reassuringly.
