I had no intention of opening the little bag. I put it under my pillow—which was my reason for refusing to have the linen slips changed, to Mrs. Klopton’s dismay. And sometimes during the morning, while I lay under a virgin field of white, ornamented with strange flowers, my cigarettes hidden beyond discovery, and Science and Health on a table by my elbow, as if by the merest accident, I slid my hand under my pillow and touched it reverently.
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. Today—he lies before me, his peevish self. Yesterday I thought the notes were burned: today—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. Today—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, tomorrow—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 downstairs. McKnight looked after him wistfully.
“Jove, I wish I had his constitution,” he exclaimed. “Neither nerves nor heart! What a chauffeur he would make!”
But I was serious.
“I have an idea,” I said grimly, “that this small matter of the murder is going to come up again, and that your uncle will be in
