The cool hand slipped from his forehead to his lips, as if to warn him that he must not talk, and he went through the motions of kissing it. When it was withdrawn he broke the silent prohibition promptly.
"The way to keep me from talking is to do it all yourself; what happened to me last night?"
She shook her head sorrowfully.
"The 'last night' you mean was three weeks ago. Stevie was trying to shoot Mr. Cortwright in your office and you got between them. Do you remember that?"
"Perfectly," he said. "But it still seems as if it were only last night. Where am I now?—not that it makes any difference, so long as I'm with you."
"You are at home—our home; at the 'Little Susan.' Mr. Leshington had the men carry you up here, and Mr. Ford ran a special train all the way from Denver with the doctors. Stevie's bullet struck you in the head, and—and we all thought you were going to die."
"I'm not," he asserted, in feebly desperate determination. "I'm going to live and get to work and earn a hundred thousand dollars, so I can say: 'Come, little girl——'"
Again the restraining hand was laid upon his lips, and again he went through the motions of kissing it.
"You mustn't talk!" she insisted. "You said you'd let me." And when he made the sign of acquiescence, she went on: "At first the doctors wouldn't give us any hope at all; they said you might live, but you'd—you'd never—never remember—never have your reason again. But yesterday——"
"Please!" he pleaded. "That's more than enough about me. I want to know what happened."