Dr. Littlejohn started and peered into the wan face lying back on the pillow. Its impassiveness reassured him.
“Why, perhaps--once or twice,” he returned slowly, falling back into his old position, “though rarely--very rarely.”
“But it has happened?”
“Yes, it has happened. There was a case recently in England. The shock and blow released the pressure on the optic nerve; but--”
Something in the face he was watching brought him suddenly forward in his chair. “My dear woman, you don’t mean--you can’t--”
He did not finish his sentence. Mrs. Whitmore opened her eyes and met his gaze unflinchingly. Then she turned her head.
“Doctor,” she said, “that picture on the wall there at the foot of the bed--it doesn’t hang quite straight.”
“Mrs. Whitmore!” breathed the man incredulously, half rising from his chair.
“Hush! Not yet!” The woman’s insistent hand had pulled him back. “Why am I here? Where is this place?”
There was no answer.