"Right—I'll get them."
It was quite like old hospital times. The sofa was hard and the pillows knobby. But he had lain upon worse. Li Ho was not more unhandy than many an orderly. And the tablets, quickly and neatly administered by Miss Farr, brought something of relief.
Not until she saw the strain within his eyes relax did his self-appointed nurse pass sentence.
"You certainly can't move until you are better," she said. "You'll have to stay. It can't be helped but—father will have a fit."
"A fit?" murmured Spence. Privately he thought that a fit might do the old gentleman good.
"He hates having anyone here," she went on thoughtfully. "It upsets him."
"Does it? But why? I can understand it upsetting you. But he—he doesn't do the work, does he?"
"Not exactly," the girl smiled. "But—oh well, I don't believe in explanations. You'll see things for your-self, perhaps. And now I'll get you a book. I won't warn you not to move for I know you can't."
With a glance which, true to her promise, was not overburdened with sympathy, his strangely acquired hostess went out and closed the door.
He tried to read the book she had handed him ("Green Mansions"—ho-r had it wandered out here?) but his mind could not detach itself. It insisted upon listening for sounds outside. And presently a sound came—the high, thin sound of a voice shaking with weakness or rage. Then the cool tones of his absent nurse, then the voice again—certainly a most unpleasant voice—and the crashing sound of something being violently thrown to the ground and stamped upon. Through the closed door, the professor seemed to see a vision of an absurd old man with pale eyes, who shrieked and stamped upon an umbrella.