I was just on the point of interrogating Danny Regan as to the inspiring cause of his raid when I heard Wharton Kendrick's voice rise in querulous tones:
"Here, I must get up," he said with evident effort. "Is the city on fire?"
"After a while," said the soothing voice of the doctor. "The city is all safe, and you'll have to wait till to-morrow before you get out."
"I must look after things to-night," said the patient, his voice rising complainingly. "I must look after things."
I got to my feet and walked softly to his couch. He was vainly trying to rise, and beating the air helplessly with his hands.
"I must get out--help me, somebody!" he cried in an appealing voice. He tried to lift himself, but his body refused to obey his will.
The doctor uttered a soothing protest.
Miss Kendrick added her voice to the authority of the doctor and at her quieting words Wharton Kendrick closed his eyes. Then on a sudden he opened them widely, and again attempted to raise his head.
"It's the business--it's the business!" he cried with the voice of one who had brought a forgotten thing from the depths of his memory. "It's all upset. I must see to it, or it will be too late."
She patted him again with gentle hand.