“I have heard of such cases,” he murmured, in wonder. “But I only know of two that are authentic. It is more probable that she was merely in a collapse. I can inquire later.”
While he talked, he had been selecting and filling a hypodermic needle. Now, stepping past Conover, who had not noted the newcomers’ presence, he pressed the needle-point into Desirée’s forearm.
“You really think then—?” cried Jack.
“I think it is worth a fight!” snapped the doctor. “Go down and see if my nurse has come. I left her at the station. She could not walk as fast as I. Go out quietly. This man doesn’t even know we are here, but I don’t want to take any chance just yet of breaking his ‘influence.’ Time enough for that when the digitalis begins to act.”
Caleb Conover stretched himself and sat up. He felt oddly weak and depressed. For the first time in his life he was tired out.
For twenty hours he had slept. The afternoon sun was pouring in at the windows. Caleb glanced stupidly about him and recognized the anteroom leading off from the sick chamber. Vaguely at first, then more clearly, he recalled that someone—ever and ever so long ago—had shaken him by the shoulder and had repeated over and over in his ears “She is alive!”
Then, at last the iterated words of command that had been saying themselves through his own lips for three hours had somehow ceased, and something in his head had given way. He had lurched into the anteroom, tumbled over on a sofa and had fallen asleep at once from sheer exhaustion. And Dey—?
Weakly cursing the gross selfishness that had let him sleep like a log while Desirée’s life had hung in the balance Conover got to his feet and made for the door of the sick room. His step was springless, clumping, noisy. Dr. Colfax, hearing it, came out from the inner room to meet him. Caleb gazed at the man with dull vacancy. He did not remember having seen him before.
“Miss—Miss Shevlin?” asked Conover, thickly; his throat agonizingly raw from the long hours of tireless, unremittent calling.