“Who did it?”
“I did.”
He knit his brows. Then he saw the knife in my hand, and bit his lip. It
did not occur to me, then, to put the knife away.
We were silent again. Then--“Take me to the Wagon-lits,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I cried, “we will take care of you here,”
He shook his head, and again bit his lip. “I want to go to the
Wagon-lits,” he repeated.
“In one moment, sir.” It was the manager, talking over my shoulder.
I stared; for I had not heard him approach. “In a moment, sir. The
automobile, it will be here.”
After all, it was better so, if he could stand it. And doubtless he
could.
He was looking again at the knife in my hand. I held it up and stared at
it. There was a little blood on it, near the point. He reached out, and
I gave it to him. It was his property, not mine Very deliberately he
drew the sheath from his pocket, put the knife into it, and thrust it
into his side pocket. But he thought differently of this; for a moment
later, when he thought I was not looking, he transferred it to his
inside breast pocket. I wondered a little at this. Then it occurred
to me that he feared it might be observed by others, there in the side
pocket.
An automobile drew up before the building.
“I have telephone for the doctor,” said the manager. “It is that he will
await us at the Wagon-lits.”
Then we carried Crocker out on his cot--the manager, three Chinamen,
and I. He was very heavy. And they took him away. He did not look at me
again, or speak to me. And I, of course, said nothing.
I hesitated outside the door of my room, trying to think out what I
should say to Heloise. But I could not think very clearly. Neither could
I stand there indefinitely.
I went in, opening the door very softly, and closing it softly behind
me. My principal thought, at the moment, was of getting across to my
bureau and brushing my hair and straightening my tie before Heloise
should see me. I could not bear to think of coming before her with these
visible evidences of the struggle upon me.
But I could not get beyond the bed. I sank down on it, leaning against
the footboard. I was sitting this way when Heloise came in.
She came swiftly toward me, a hundred questions in her eyes. She never
before looked so lovely to me as standing there before me, blue of gown
and eye--all blue, it seemed to me--something flushed with excitement,
her under lip drawn in a little way between her teeth.
[Illustration: 0287]
“Oh, Anthony,” she said, low and breathless, “you are hurt!”
I shook my head. But she was staring down at my left hand, that lay on
my knee. My gaze followed hers. There was blood on my wrist. It must
have run down my arm.
She helped me take off my coat, and with a small pair of scissors that
she got from her room cut off my shirt sleeve at the shoulder. It was
wet and stained with red.
There was a gash in my upper arm.
She held up the arm and looked closely at it. I liked the direct,
practical way she went about it.
“It is n't an artery,” she mused, studying the wound. “Not a big one,
anyway.” And she washed it, and drew it together with plaster from my
emergency kit, and bandaged it very neatly. Then she helped me to lie
down--brought pillows from her own room to place behind my head.
She did not ask one question; just worked to make me comfortable.
Finally she sat on the edge of the bed, and critically looked me over.
“You'll be all right,” she said thoughtfully. “I know one thing that is
the matter. We both forgot all about luncheon.”