Dr. Kennedy, when we were alone, said, as he did when nurse was standing there:
"Well! how are you getting on?"
"Splendidly." And then, without any circumlocution, although we had not spoken of the matter for weeks, and so much had occurred in the meantime, I asked him: "What did you do about that packet? I want it now. I am quite well enough."
"You have not seen her since?"
"Over and over again. She thinks I am shirking my responsibilities."
"Are you well enough to write?"
"I am well enough to read. When will you bring me the letters?"
"I brought them when I said I would, the day you were taken ill."
"Where are they?"
"In the first drawer, the right-hand drawer of the chest of drawers." He turned round to it. "That is, if they have not been moved. I put the packet there myself, told nurse it was something that was not to be touched. The morphia things are in the same place. I don't know what she thinks it is, some new and useless drug or apparatus; she has no opinion of me, you know. I used to see it night and morning, as long as you were having the injections."
"See if it is there now."
He went over and opened the drawer: