“It was terrible,” he went on. “I didn’t dare interrupt him. He was crouching there, holding her close to him and looking at her as if he’d drag her spirit by main force back into her body. And all the time he was saying over and over—”
“I will go up,” said the specialist, cutting in on the narrative. “Even if the local physician did not complete a full examination to make sure she was dead, such insane treatment would destroy any chance of life. Show me the way.”
Together they entered the sick room. Conover had not stirred. Through the closed door they had heard the hoarse rumble of his eternal command:—
“Dey! Come back!”
Dr. Colfax walked briskly across to the bed.
“Here!” he said, addressing Caleb in the sharp tones used for arousing the delirious. “This won’t do! You must—”
He paused; his first idle glance at Desirée’s pale face changing in a flash to one of keen professional interest. He caught one of her wrists, at the point where it was engulfed in Caleb’s great hand; held it for an instant; then, turning, flung open his black medical case.
Jack, who had lingered at the door, hurried forward on tiptoe.
“You don’t mean—?” he whispered quaveringly.
“The local physician was mistaken,” returned Dr. Colfax in the same key. “Or she—” he hesitated.