Dr. Owen observed her attentively and did not speak for some moments. Seraphine and Christopher drew their chairs nearer, as if they knew that the tension of restraint was about to break.
“You must realize that you have been under a great strain, Mrs. Wells,” resumed the doctor, “and you are tired—you are very tired.”
Her answer came dreamily, absent-mindedly: “Yes, I am tired,” and, as she spoke, Penelope's tragic eyes closed wearily. But her fingers still clutched the pencil and continued to move it over the white sheet.
“Look!” whispered Seraphine, “she is making letters upside down.”
“That's queer!” nodded Owen. “She is writing backwards—from right to left. Hello!” He started in surprise as he saw, on bending closer, that Penelope had covered the sheet with large printed letters—X—K—C, written over and over again.
Greatly disturbed, Dr. Owen roused his patient and questioned her about this; but she insisted that she had no idea what she had written or what the letters meant. A little later, however, she acknowledged that this was not true.
“What! You did know what you wrote?” the scientist demanded. His whole manner had changed. His eyes were cold and accusing. He was no longer a sympathetic physician tactful towards the whims of a pretty woman, but a major in the United States Army defending the interests of his country.
“This is a very serious matter, Mrs. Wells, please understand that. You told me just now that you did not know what you wrote on the sheet of paper?”
Penelope faced him scornfully. Her cheeks were flushed. Her bosom heaved.
“I said that, but it wasn't true. I lied to you. I did know what I wrote.”