Then, as she looked, Cary roused, turned, opened his eyes, withdrew his hand with a jerk, and Black woke also. And Cary was sane again, and very weak, and spoke querulously:
“What the devil——” he began. “Who are you—and what are you doing here?” Then, to Jane,—“Is this a cheap lodging house, and do you take in every vagrant that comes along?”
“I took you in, dear,” said Jane, quietly. “And Mr. Black has stayed by you all night. He must be very tired.”
Black laughed. “I’ve had quite a sleep, anyhow,” he said, attempting with considerable difficulty to get upon his feet. “Certain areas seem to have been more asleep than others, though. My arm—” and he began to pinch and pound it—“looks to be all here, but it feels rather absent.” It was absent indeed, and hanging by his side, quite numb.
Cary’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean—why, you’re the chap that—that——” His weak voice took on a tension.
“Never mind about the identification. I’m glad you’re feeling better this morning.”
“I don’t feel better. I feet like the devil. But I—I’m certainly obliged to you. I—have you been here all—night?”
“Of course. Oh, thank you, Miss Ray—it’ll come back in a minute,” for Jane had come up and was applying a vigorous massage with her own hands to the inert arm.
“Well, I’ll be——” but Cary left the exclamation unfinished, and began another. “I say—I’m not worth it!” he groaned, and buried his head in the crumpled white pillow.
Downstairs, presently, Black, ready to go, spoke authoritatively. “Please promise me you will call the Doctor early.”