But since it was only to be expected that we both show the strain of the last twenty-four hours, I thought nothing of her evident uneasiness.
She had not been in the room more than half an hour when I was called to the third-floor telephone. The connection was poor and it took a few moments to find that it was Miss Neil who was wanted, and when I returned to my own room Maida had gone and I did not see her again until we met in the south wing at twelve o’clock.
Contrary to our unacknowledged apprehensions, second watch that night went much the same as on other nights. The electric lights had finally been repaired, though the utmost illumination was little enough to suit my taste. Just in front of the south door a policeman, tipped perilously back in his chair, slumbered spasmodically and I must say that, though he was no beauty, he was a most agreeable sight.
Fortunately for our piece of mind, it was a busy night. We actually needed the extra help, Olma Flynn and a student nurse, and the two extra uniforms, here and there about the wing, made it seem a little less silent and ghostly.
Along about two o’clock Sonny’s light went on and I answered it.
“Why, hello, Miss Keate,” he said, as I turned on the light above his bed. “You haven’t been in to see me since last night.”
Was it only last night?
“I’ve been busy, Sonny,” I replied. “How is the cast doing?”
“It was pretty bad last night.” He moved a little to ease his tired body. “It is better tonight, though. Quite a lot more comfortable. What happened last night, Miss Keate? I heard somebody scream.”
“One of the girls had a little fright.” I made my explanation casually but Sonny’s gaze remained puzzled.
“Today has been so queer, too. So many people in and out and strange footsteps past the door. And this afternoon, about two o’clock, they shut all the doors and I heard the wheels of a truck being taken along the corridor. Did—did one of the patients die, Miss Keate?”
When I can’t tell the truth I made it a rule to tell as near the truth as possible.
“One of the patients died, Sonny. He was an old gentleman.”
“Oh,” said Sonny, eyeing me doubtfully. I reached over to straighten his sheets. Through long hours of suffering, of lying helpless in bed and being at times rather nearer the other world than this, Sonny has developed a highly sensitive intuition.
“Oh,” he said again. He was not satisfied but had good manners. “Did you have a nice time at the party?” he asked cheerfully.
“At the party—Why, no, Sonny. It—er—wasn’t a very nice party. It was too hot.”
“I guess Miss Day didn’t get time to come in and tell me about it. I looked for her. But she must have been too busy.”
“But I thought—” I checked myself abruptly, continuing: “Maybe she will come in to see you tonight. What is it you wanted, Sonny?”
“Just a fresh drink, please. And would you change my pillows?”
I brought the fresh drink and made him as comfortable as possible.
So Maida had not been in to see Sonny last night after all! And she had volunteered the information, I remembered; I had not even asked for it. I deliberated over the matter for some time before I came to the reluctant conclusion that only an affair of importance would have brought Maida to the point of telling a deliberate lie. Which conclusion did not lighten my state of mind.
The night didn’t go so well after that.
From midnight until four o’clock are the dreaded hours of St. Ann’s regime. They are gray, cold, dreary hours—hours when pulses lag most feebly, when the breath comes most wearily, when life seems a burden that is all too easily escaped and the other world seems so near that the nurse must cling to her patients with all her will to keep them from making that quiet, easy journey. It is one of the demands of our profession that the most is asked of our strength at a time when it is at its lowest ebb.
Last night there had been two dead men in our wing—and dead by another’s hands. Whose hand had it been?
Somehow during those black hours in that hushed and shadowy wing the thing that struck me with the most horror, that brought my heart, quivering, to my throat and gooseflesh all up my arms, was the memory of that locked closet.
Dead men can’t walk. Dead men can’t carry keys. Dead men can’t lock doors.
Who had locked that door? We must believe that it was some intruder, someone outside our little circle at St. Ann’s. And surely the police had searched the place and that fearful intruder could not still be about, hidden in some recess of the dark old halls and passageways.
And yet—who would be familiar with the plan of St. Ann’s? Who would know that the radium was in use? Who, indeed, would know of its value?
Eleven’s signal light clicked and I hastened to answer, putting down the chart at which I had been staring without even seeing its red temperature line.
I found Eleven in a chill, which was followed, as I expected, by a raging fever under which he grew steadily delirious. Dr. Balman’s orders for the night had included an opiate if conditions warranted it, so I went to the drug room.
The drug room is at the north end of the wing, directly opposite the diet kitchen. We always keep there a small supply of drugs for which we have frequent need.
