McKnight came in about eleven. I heard his car at the curb, followed almost immediately by his slam at the front door, and his usual clamor on the stairs. He had a bottle under his arm, rightly surmising that I had been forbidden stimulant, and a large box of cigarettes in his pocket, suspecting my deprivation.
“Well,” he said cheerfully. “How did you sleep after keeping me up half the night?”
I slid my hand around: the purse was well covered. “Have it now, or wait till I get the cork out?” he rattled on.
“I don’t want anything,” I protested. “I wish you wouldn’t be so darned cheerful, Richey.” He stopped whistling to stare at me.
“‘I am saddest when I sing!’” he quoted unctuously. “It’s pure reaction, Lollie. Yesterday the sky was low: I was digging for my best friend. To-day - he lies before me, his peevish self. Yesterday I thought the notes were burned: to-day - I look forward to a good cross-country chase, and with luck we will draw.” His voice changed suddenly. “Yesterday - she was in Seal Harbor. To-day - she is here.”
“Here in Washington?” I asked, as naturally as I could.
“Yes. Going to stay a week or two.”
“Oh, I had a little hen and she had a wooden leg And nearly every morning she used to lay an egg - ”
“Will you stop that racket, Rich! It’s the real thing this time, I suppose?”
“She’s the best little chicken that we have on the farm And another little drink won’t do us any harm - ”
he finished, twisting out the corkscrew. Then he came over and sat down on the bed.
“Well,” he said judicially, “since you drag it from me, I think perhaps it is. You - you’re such a confirmed woman-hater that I hardly knew how you would take it.”
“Nothing of the sort,” I denied testily. “Because a man reaches the age of thirty without making maudlin love to every - ”
“I’ve taken to long country rides,” he went on reflectively, without listening to me, “and yesterday I ran over a sheep; nearly went into the ditch. But there’s a Providence that watches over fools and lovers, and just now I know darned well that I’m one, and I have a sneaking idea I’m both.”
“You are both,” I said with disgust. “If you can be rational for one moment, I wish you would tell me why that man Sullivan called me over the telephone yesterday morning.”
“Probably hadn’t yet discovered the Bronson notes - providing you hold to your theory that the theft was incidental to the murder. May have wanted his own clothes again, or to thank you for yours. Search me: I can’t think of anything else.” The doctor came in just then.
As I said before, I think a lot of my doctor - when I am ill. He is a young man, with an air of breezy self- confidence and good humor. He looked directly past the bottle, which is a very valuable accomplishment, and shook hands with McKnight until I could put the cigarettes under the bedclothes. He had interdicted tobacco. Then he sat down beside the bed and felt around the bandages with hands as gentle as a baby’s.
“Pretty good shape,” he said. “How did you sleep?”
“Oh, occasionally,” I replied. “I would like to sit up, doctor.”
“Nonsense. Take a rest while you have an excuse for it. I wish to thunder I could stay in bed for a day or so. I was up all night.”
“Have a drink,” McKnight said, pushing over the bottle.
“Twins!” The doctor grinned.
“Have two drinks.”
But the medical man refused.
“I wouldn’t even wear a champagne-colored necktie during business hours,” he explained. “By the way, I had another case from your accident, Mr. Blakeley, late yesterday afternoon. Under the tongue, please.” He stuck a thermometer in my mouth.
I had a sudden terrible vision of the amateur detective coming to light, notebook, cheerful impertinence and incriminating data. “A small man?” I demanded, “gray hair - ”
“Keep your mouth closed,” the doctor said peremptorily. “No. A woman, with a fractured skull. Beautiful case. Van Kirk was up to his eyes and sent for me. Hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils - all the trimmings. Worked for two hours.”
“Did she recover?” McKnight put in. He was examining the doctor with a new awe.
“She lifted her right arm before I left,” the doctor finished cheerily, “so the operation was a success, even if she should die.”
“Good Heavens,” McKnight broke in, “and I thought you were just an ordinary mortal, like the rest of us! Let me touch you for luck. Was she pretty?”
“Yes, and young. Had a wealth of bronze-colored hair. Upon my soul, I hated to cut it.”
McKnight and I exchanged glances.
“Do you know her name, doctor?” I asked.
“No. The nurses said her clothes came from a Pittsburg tailor.”
“She is not conscious, I suppose?”
“No; she may be, to-morrow - or in a week.”
He looked at the thermometer, murmured something about liquid diet, avoiding my eye - Mrs. Klopton was broiling a chop at the time - and took his departure, humming cheerfully as he went down-stairs. McKnight looked
