Rankin sprang to his feet, holding Ariadne on one arm, and stepped quickly inside. “Here is the baby,” he said in a quiet voice. “I was holding her all the time you slept. I will not let the Minotaur come near her.”
Lydia looked at him long, with no sign of recognition. The room was intensely silent. A drop of blood showed on Dr. Melton’s lower lip where his teeth gripped it.
“Nobody else sees it,” said Lydia in a hurried, frightened tone. “They won’t believe me when I say it is there. They won’t take care of Ariadne. They can’t—”
“I see it,” Rankin broke in. He went on steadily: “I will take care that it does not hurt Ariadne.”
“Do you promise?” asked Lydia solemnly.
“I promise,” said Rankin.
Lydia looked about her wonderingly, with blank eyes. “I think, then, I will lie down and rest a little,” she said, in a thin, weak voice. “I feel very tired. I can’t seem to remember what makes me so tired.” She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. Her face was like a sick child’s in its appealing, patient look of suffering. She looked up at Rankin again. “You will not go far?” she asked.
“I shall be close at hand,” he answered.
“You are very kind,” murmured Lydia, closing her eyes again. “I am sorry to be so much trouble to you—but it is so important about Ariadne. I am sorry to be so—you are—very—”
Melton touched the other man’s arm and motioned him to the door.