His arm tightened about her; he drew her on up the shady walk. "And that is all you remember, kiddie?" he said.
She slipped her arm round his neck as they walked. "No, I remember two things more." She forced back her tears to tell him. "I remember Max's arm all soaked with blood. It stained my dress too. And I remember his saying that—that it was a hopeless case, and that she—Violet—was as good as dead. After that—after that——"
Nick waited. "After that?" he said.
She turned to him, her face anguished, piteous, appealing. "I can't get any further than that, Nick. It's just a dreadful darkness that makes me afraid. I think I begged him not to go to her. But I know he went, because—when he came down again"—her voice faltered; bewilderment showed through her distress—"when he came down again—" she repeated the words like a child conning a lesson, then stopped, staring widely. "Ah, I don't remember," she cried hopelessly. "I don't remember—except that I think—when he came down again—it was all over. And he seemed to be angry with me. Why was he angry with me, Nick? Why? Why?"
She began to tremble violently; but Nick's arm, strong and steadfast, drew her on.
"He wasn't angry," said Nick. "Up to that point you are all right, but there your imagination runs away with you. It's not surprising. He looks grim enough when he's on the job. But that's his way. We know too much of him, you and I, to take him over seriously."
"Then he really wasn't angry?" Olga said, relief struggling with doubt in her voice.
Nick began to smile. "He really wasn't," he said.
She gave a sharp sigh. "I've been so afraid sometimes. But why—why did he look so strange?"
"Doctors don't like being beaten," said Nick.