"No—no. I feel uncomfortable. Queer…"
She drew aside the curtains and went to the bed.
"Do you?" she asked soothingly. "How's that, I wonder? Let's have a look at you."
A dingy crimson flush underlay his dried skin, his head turned restlessly from side to side. At once she suspected that his temperature was up again.
"I'm devilish hot; burning up … fever … I thought I'd finished with it."
"So you have; you're getting on famously."
She gave no sign of the sudden fear that darted through her. Why should his temperature go up like that? She did not like the look in his eyes.
"Well, let's see what you've been up to," she cajoled him gently and, having made the bed more comfortable, reached for the thermometer.
As she suspected, the mercury rose high into the danger zone. When she examined the little tube, her heart stood still in sickening alarm. What had brought about this change for the worse in such a short space of time? She racked her brain, but could not account for it. She glanced searchingly at the old man, who had abandoned interest in his condition, and lay absolutely still, save for the faint movements of his bony fingers upon the coverlet.
She was too disturbed even to shrink from the duty of informing Sartorius; there was no room in her mind now for personal animus. She found the doctor in his own room, a medical journal on his knee and an untidy ash-tray beside him, together with a cup of strong Indian tea.