“I hope you don’t want me to kill Mr.—er—Haythorne,” he said gently, almost pleadingly. “It would be most distressing, and, I assure you, really it is unnecessary.”
“But you must do something,” she cried.
“On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do anything.”
“You would stay here?”
He nodded.
She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. “Night is coming on. You can’t stop here. You can’t! I tell you, you simply can’t!”
“Of course I can. I might remind you that I found this cabin first and that you are my guests.”
Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk.
“Then we’ll have to go,” she announced decisively.
“Impossible. You have a dry, hacking cough—the sort Mr.—er—Haythorne so aptly described. You’ve already slightly chilled your lungs. Besides, he is a physician and knows. He would never permit it.”