A clammy hand clutched her wrist. She knew that Pratt Sanderson must have been horribly wrought up and nervous, for he was trembling.
“What is the matter? Why are you out of your bed, Pratt?” she asked, quite calmly.
“I couldn’t sleep. Fever in those scratches, I s’pose,” said the young man. “I got up and went outside to get a drink at the fountain–and to bathe my face and wrists. Isn’t it hot?”
“You are feverish,” whispered Frances, cautiously. “Have you seen daddy?”
“The Captain?” returned Pratt, wonderingly. “Oh, no. He isn’t up, is he?”
“He’s not in his room—”
“And you’re not in yours,” said Pratt, with a nervous laugh. “We all seem to be out of our beds at the hour when graveyards yawn, eh?”
Frances had a reassuring laugh ready.
“I think you would better go to bed again, Pratt,” she said. “You–you saw nothing in the court?”
“No. But I thought I heard a big bird overhead when I was splashing the water about out there. Imagination, of course,” he added. “There are no big night-flying birds out here on the plains?”