CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE OF NORHALA
Her eyes closed, her body relaxed; the potion had done its work quickly. We laid her beside Ventnor on the pile of silken stuffs, covered them both with a fold, then looked at each other long and silently—and I wondered whether my face was as grim and drawn as his.
“It appears,” he said at last, curtly, “that it's up to you and me for powwow quick. I hope you're not sleepy.”
“I am not,” I answered as curtly; the edge of nerves in his manner of questioning doing nothing to soothe my own, “and even if I were I would hardly expect to put all the burden of the present problem upon you by going to sleep.”
“For God's sake don't be a prima donna,” he flared up. “I meant no offense.”
“I'm sorry, Dick,” I said. “We're both a little jumpy, I guess.” He nodded; gripped my hand.
“It wouldn't be so bad,” he muttered, “if all four of us were all right. But Ventnor's down and out, and God alone knows for how long. And Ruth—has all the trouble we have and some special ones of her own. I've an idea”—he hesitated—“an idea that there was no exaggeration in that story she told—an idea that if anything she underplayed it.”
“I, too,” I replied somberly. “And to me it is the most hideous phase of this whole situation—and for reasons not all connected with Ruth,” I added.
“Hideous!” he repeated. “Unthinkable—yet all this is unthinkable. And still—it is! And Ventnor—coming back—that way. Like a lost soul finding voice.