"Our patient is a little nervous," explained the quiet-eyed woman who stood at my side. She delivered this message so casually that I turned and looked up into her face, wondering, for a moment, if she had hypnotized herself into believing I was actually a sick woman.
Her face, however, was once more as expressionless as a mask. And it remained that way even when the old weasel advanced to the bedside and pushed her bruskly to one side. With my free hand I could feel my Sheffield-plate candlestick under the sheet. And that gave my tugging nerves a sort of wind-anchor.
"My dear," that old scoundrel purred, as he leaned close down over me, "you do as you've been told to do and nothing whatever will happen to you. Nothing can happen to you!"
Notwithstanding that assurance I could feel his fingers close about my wrist. They made me think of the claws of a bird of prey.
"But there's too much happening here already," I protested. "And there are a few things I want set straight!"
"Listen to me," retorted that old weasel, and he spoke in a sort of hissing whisper as he stooped
