Kennedy glanced at the doctor and the figure lying so quietly on the bed, then at the girl, and decided. She had hesitated not a moment, when she had heard how close Shelby was to death, but had hurried to him. He opened the door and she entered softly, tiptoeing toward the bed.
It must have been by some telepathic influence that Shelby, who had a moment before been scarcely conscious, felt her presence. She had scarcely whispered a word to the doctor, as she bent over him, but he opened his eyes, caught just a glimpse of her face, and seemed to drink it in as his eyes rested on the bunch of flowers she was wearing—his flowers, which he had sent her.
He smiled faintly. Not even by a word or look was any reference made to their misunderstanding. It was a strange meeting, but it seemed that the very atmosphere had changed. Even the doctor noticed it. In spite of his pain, Shelby had brightened visibly.
“I don’t think we need that nurse,” whispered the doctor to Kennedy, with an understanding glance. “What was that you said about some one listening over the telephone? Who could it have been?”
The doctor said it in a low enough tone, but it seemed that Maddox’s senses must have been suddenly made more acute by the coming of Winifred.
He had reached out, weakly but unhesitatingly, and had placed his hand on hers as it rested on his pillows. At the mention of the telephone he turned toward us with an inquiring look. It seemed to recall to his mind something that had been on it before the accident.
“Some one—listening,” he repeated, more to himself than to us.
Winifred looked inquiringly at us, too, but said nothing.
Kennedy tried to pass the thing over, but the doctor’s remark seemed to have started some train of thought in Shelby’s mind, which could not be so easily stopped.
“Some one—pounding Maddox Munitions,” he murmured, brokenly, as if feeling his way through a maze. “Now I’m out—they’ll succeed. What can I do? How can I hold up the market?”