While the nurse was attending to the girl Tarling sought an interview with the medical officer in charge of the hospital.
“I don’t think there’s a great deal the matter with her,” said the doctor. “In fact, she was fit for discharge from hospital two or three days ago, and it was only at her request that we let her stay. Do I understand that she is wanted in connection with the Daffodil Murder?”
“As a witness,” said Tarling glibly. He realised that he was saying a ridiculous thing, because the fact that a warrant was out for Odette Rider must have been generally known to the local authorities. Her description had been carefully circulated, and that description must have come to the heads of hospitals and public institutions. The next words of the doctor confirmed his knowledge.
“As a witness, eh?” he said dryly. “Well, I don’t want to pry into your secrets, or rather into the secrets of Scotland Yard, but she is fit to travel just as soon as you like.”
There was a knock on the door, and the matron came into the doctor’s office.
“Miss Rider wishes to see you, sir,” she said, addressing Tarling, and the detective, taking up his hat, went back to the little ward.
He found the girl more composed but still deathly white. She was out of bed, sitting in a big arm chair, wrapped in a dressing-gown, and she motioned Tarling to pull up a chair to her side. She waited until after the door had closed behind the nurse, then she spoke.
“It was very silly of me to faint, Mr. Tarling but the news was so horrible and so unexpected. Won’t you tell me all about it? You see, I have not read a newspaper since I have been in the hospital. I heard one of the nurses talk about the Daffodil Murder — that is not the—”
She hesitated, and Tarling nodded. He was lighter of heart now, almost cheerful. He had no doubt in his mind that the girl was innocent, and life had taken on a rosier aspect.
“Thornton Lyne,” he began, “was murdered on the night of the 14th. He was last seen alive by his valet about half-past nine in the evening. Early next morning his body was found in Hyde Park. He had been shot dead, and an effort had been made to stanch the wound in his breast by binding a woman’s silk nightdress round and round his body. On his breast somebody had laid a bunch of daffodils.”
“Daffodils?” repeated the girl wonderingly. “But how—”
“His car was discovered a hundred yards from the place,” Tarling continued, “and it was clear that he had been murdered elsewhere, brought to the Park in his car, and left on the sidewalk. At the time he was discovered he had on neither coat nor vest, and on his feet were a pair of list slippers.”
“But I don’t understand,” said the bewildered girl. “What does it mean? Who had—” She stopped suddenly, and the detective saw her lips tighten together, as though to restrain her speech. Then suddenly she covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, it’s terrible, terrible!” she whispered. “I never thought, I never dreamed — oh, it is terrible!”
Tarling laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“Miss Rider,” he said, “you suspect somebody of this crime. Won’t you tell me?”
She shook her head without looking up.
“I can say nothing,” she said.
“But don’t you see that suspicion will attach to you?” urged Tarling. “A telegram was discovered amongst his belongings, asking him to call at your flat that evening.”
She looked up quickly.
“A telegram from me?” she said. “I sent no telegram.”
“Thank God for that!” cried Tarling fervently. “Thank God for that!”
“But I don’t understand, Mr. Tarling. A telegram was sent to Mr. Lyne asking him to come to my flat? Did he go to my flat?”
Tarling nodded.
“I have reason to believe he did,” he said gravely. “The murder was committed in your flat.”
“My God!” she whispered. “You don’t mean that! Oh, no, no, it is impossible!”
Briefly he recited all his discoveries. He knew that he was acting in a manner which, from the point of view of police ethics, was wholly wrong and disloyal. He was placing her in possession of all the clues and giving her an opportunity to meet and refute the evidence which had been collected against her. He told her of the bloodstains on the floor, and described the nightdress which had been found around Thornton Lyne’s body.
“That was my nightdress,” she said simply and without hesitation. “Go on, please, Mr. Tarling.”
He told her of the bloody thumbprints upon the door of the bureau.
“On your bed,” he went on, “I found your dressing-case, half-packed.”
She swayed forward, and threw out her hands, groping blindly.
“Oh, how wicked, how wicked!” she wailed “He did it, he did it!”
“Who?” demanded Tarling.
He took the girl by the shoulder and shook her.
“Who was the man? You must tell me. Your own life depends upon it. Don’t you see, Odette, I want to help you? I want to clear your name of this terrible charge. You suspect somebody. I must have his name.”
She shook her head and turned her pathetic face to his.
“I can’t tell you,” she said in a low voice. “I can say no more. I knew nothing of the murder until you told me. I had no idea, no thought… I hated Thornton Lyne, I hated him, but I would not have hurt him… it is dreadful, dreadful!”
Presently she grew calmer.
“I must go to London at once,” she said. “Will you please take me back?”
She saw his embarrassment and was quick to understand its cause.
“You — you have a warrant, haven’t you?”
He nodded.
“On the charge of — murder?”
He nodded again. She looked at him in silence for some moments.
“I shall be ready in half an hour,” she said, and without a word the detective left the room.
He made his way back to the doctor’s sanctum, and found that gentleman awaiting him impatiently.
“I say,” said the doctor, “that’s all bunkum about this girl being wanted as a witness. I had my doubts and I looked up the Scotland Yard warning which I received a couple of days ago. She’s Odette Rider, and she’s wanted on a charge of murder.”
“Got it first time,” said Tarling, dropping wearily into a chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not a bit,” said the doctor cheerfully. “I suppose you’re taking her with you?”
Tarling nodded.
“I can’t imagine a girl like that committing a murder,” said Dr. Saunders. “She doesn’t seem to possess the physique necessary to have carried out all the etceteras of the crime. I read the particulars in the Morning Globe. The person who murdered Thornton Lyne must have carried him from his car and laid him on the grass, or wherever he was found — and that girl couldn’t lift a large-sized baby.”
Tarling jerked his head in agreement.
“Besides,” Dr. Saunders went on, “she hasn’t the face of a murderer. I don’t mean to say that because she’s pretty she couldn’t commit a crime, but there are certain types of prettiness