Was that Janet?

The man in plain cloths said: “Better have some more light. Light the lamp outside, Harris.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris, the policeman nearer the door, seemed reluctant to release Roger’s arm. When he did, the other man held on more tightly, and hurt; but that wasn’t important, all that mattered was finding out whether the woman was Janet.

The woman had stopped moaning.

The plain-clothes man approached the bed.

Roger said: “Look at her right shoulder.”

The man, his back turned on Roger, appeared to be shining his torch into her face.

“Look——” began Roger.

“You keep quiet,” said the big policeman, and dug his fingers more deeply into Roger’s arm.

“This will be the doctor,” said the plain-clothes man.

Harris came in with the lamp, alight but turned up too high and smoking badly. He stood it on the dressing-table, and the plain-clothes man told him to be careful not to touch anything. He trimmed the lamp clumsily. After the darkness and the beam of torchlight, it seemed a soft, gentle but all-revealing glow.

Roger said in a taut voice: “All I’ve asked you to do is look at her right shoulder.”

“The plain-clothes man was tall, with thin features; and the light made him look yellow.

“Why?”

“See if there’s a mole at the back of her right shoulder—egg-shaped.”

“Want to make sure you got the right woman?”

“You can be funny afterwards.”

“With you, no one will ever be funny again,” said the plain-clothes man. He made no attempt to look at the woman’s shoulder. She lay absolutely still, and hadn’t moaned again. It was better that she should be dead than alive, but—the question hammered itself against his mind, filling him with wild terror. Was she Janet?