"Somebody's been looking it up already," he observed, flattening out the book.
"Nothing in that," said Ann. "Maybe someone wanted to know — how bad it was. It's convulsions, isn't it?"
"In the final stages, yes. Excuse me." "And you did it," said Ann.
"Young woman," said Rich, raising a quietly haggard face as his finger followed the words of the text, "I have had much trouble in my life. I don't deserve this."
The door opened, and Sir Henry Merrivale lumbered in.
H.M., still wearing his white flannels and shirt, had his big fists on his hips. His manner had grown even more uneasy. Ann and Courtney regarded him questioningly.
"No better," he growled. "If anything, a little worse. And goin' on," His scowl deepened. "Y'know," he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to the others, "I'm glad I didn't have the responsibility for diagnosin'. Every symptom exact; rusty pin on dressing table… Oh, Lord love a duck, what's wrong?"
"Sir Henry!" said Rich sharply.
H.M. woke up.
"Hullo. You here, son?"