She then went for her interview with Bellamy. It astounded and chagrined her to find that Chesney had procured morphine and cocaine, for she was convinced that he had been in possession of it all the while. She felt humiliated, in her capacity of little Know-All, that she had been ignorant of this fact. For the present, however, she contented herself with seeing that all the alcohol in the house was locked safely away. Her little brown mouth looked very grim as she sat near the bedroom door, waiting for Chesney to wake from his stupefied slumber.
He did not rouse till nearly four o'clock. Then she heard short, impatient moans, given under his breath, as it were. The bed creaked now and again with his feverish tossings. Anne lifted an alert head. She half smiled, queerly; then turned to Gaynor. The two had sat side by side for hours now—Anne crocheting, the valet looking down at his hands or straight at the wall opposite.
"Go get a small glass of brandy, please," she said, putting her crochet-work into her pocket.
The valet looked so startled that she nodded to him reassuringly.
"That's all right," she said. "Doctor Bellamy knows. You trust to me."
"I do, miss," he said meekly, and went to fetch the brandy.
When he brought it, Anne took the glass in her hand, and, rising, rapped sharply on Chesney's door.
"It's me, sir—Nurse Harding," she said, in her most matter-of-fact voice. "You'll let me in, won't you?"
Perfect silence. Even the restless tossing stopped. Gaynor looked at her in deep discouragement. She only smiled again, bobbing her black curls at him with the energy of her consoling nod. "That's all right, my good man," the nod said. "I'm just taking my own time about it."
His puckered face smoothed out somewhat.