"Why?" she asked. "Are you--suspecting Mrs. Killenhall of anything,
Mr. Viner?"
Viner gave her a quick glance.
"Are you?" he said in low tones.
Miss Wickham waved a hand towards the anteroom.
"Well!" she whispered. "What's it look like? She brings me down here
in a hurry, on a message which I myself never heard nor saw delivered
in any way; after I get here, you are fetched--and here we are!
And--where is she?"
"And--possibly a much more pertinent question," said Viner, "where is
this Dr. Martincole? Look here: this is a well-furnished room; those
pictures are good; there are many valuable things here; yet the man who
practises here is only in attendance for an hour or two in an afternoon,
and once a week for rather longer in the evening. He can't earn much
here; certainly an East End doctor could not afford to buy things like
this or that. Do you know what I think? I think this man is some West End
man, who for purposes of his own has this place down here--a man who
probably lives a double life, and may possibly be mixed up in some
nefarious practices. And so I propose, as we've waited long enough, to
get out of it, and I'm going to smash that window and yell as loud as I
can--somebody will hear it!"
Miss Wickham pointed to a door in the oak panelling, a door set in a
corner of the room, across which hung a heavy curtain of red plush, only
halfdrawn.
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