“No! Nothing!” gasped Middleton. “Nothing can help me, except” — he hesitated — “except what I can never get! I have tried, Blefken. I took morphine down in Florida. It made me feel terribly. It only made matters worse. You’ll understand — after I talk. Let me rest — a few minutes.”
“All right.”
Blefken stood silent while Jerry Middleton placed his head in his hands and became quiet. The lawyer studied his visitor.
Middleton was a young man, but he appeared much older than he actually was. His face, pale and haggard, seemed ghastly when compared with his dark, roving eyes. Those eyes carried a haunted look. They were closed now.
“Middleton,” said Blefken quietly, “I’m going in the other room just long enough to tell my friends that I will be busy for a while. Wait a moment — ” He rang the bell and stood until Stokes entered.
The arrival of the servant made no impression upon Jerry Middleton. The young man was motionless, scarcely breathing. Blefken stopped his man, just within the door.
“Stokes,” said the lawyer, “go into the cardroom and tell them that my call has been interrupted. Tell them that we will have a recess of half an hour. Serve refreshments. I am coming there immediately.”
When Stokes had left, Blefken advanced and laid his hand upon Middleton’s shoulder. He cast a knowing glance at Cardona, signifying that the detective should remain hidden where he was.
“You’re all right here, aren’t you?” Blefken questioned Middleton. “All right for — say, five minutes? Not longer?”
“I can wait five minutes,” said Middleton.