H.M. gave it to him straight between the eyes. "Blood-poisoning," he said. "Tetanus. Lockjaw nasty way to die."
Eleven
Distantly, a church clock in the town struck the half hour after ten.
In the front garden of Arthur Fane's house, a warm-looking and misty moon penetrated the elms to illumine two figures who were standing on the lawn, glancing up at intervals towards the left-hand bedroom windows. These windows were closed and their curtains drawn, since in tetanus cases no breath of wind must touch the victim lest it bring on convulsions.
Outside in the street stood Dr. Nithsdale's car, and the hospital car which had brought the antitoxic serum.
Ann Browning and Phil Courtney, together on the lawn, spoke in whispers.
"But is there any chance?" Ann muttered. "That's what I want to know. Is there any chance?"
"I can't tell you. I seem to remember reading that if the symptoms come on very quickly, you're a goner."
She put her hand, a warm soft hand, on his arm. She tightened her fingers, and shook the arm fiercely. He had never felt closer to her than in this darkness, where her face looked pallid, her lips dark, and her eyes larger.
"But a little pin?" she insisted. "A little thing like a pin, to do all that?"