“Yes, sir.” Pierre’s voice was faint and he put a hand against the motor.
“Well, why don’t you take her back with you to that life? You’re not feeling any too fit yourself, are you? Look here. Get in and I’ll drop you where you belong.”
Pierre obeyed rather blindly and leaned back with closed eyes. The doctor got out a flask and poured him a dose of brandy.
“What’s the trouble? Too much New York?”
Pierre shook his head and smiled. “No, sir. I’ve been bothered and didn’t get round to eating and sleeping lately.”
“Then I’ll take you to a restaurant and we’ll have supper. I need something myself. And, look here, I’ll make you a promise. Just as soon as I consider her fit for an interview with any one, I’ll let you see Miss West. That helps you a whole lot, doesn’t it?”
But there were other powers, besides this friendly one, watching over Joan, and they were bent upon keeping Pierre away. Day after sickening day Pierre came and stood beside the desk, and the girl, each time a little more careless of him, a little more insolent toward him—for the cowboy would not notice her blue blouse and her transformation and the invitation of her eyes—gave him negligent and discouraging information.
“Miss West was better, but very weak. No. She wouldn’t see any one. Yes, Mr. Morena could see her, but not Mr. Landis, certainly not Mr. Pierre Landis, of Wyoming.”
And the doctor, being questioned by the half-frantic Westerner, admitted that Mr. Morena had hinted at reasons why it might be dangerous for the patient to see her old friend from the West. Pierre stood to receive this sentence, and after it, his eyes fell. The doctor had seen the quick, desperate moisture in them.
“I tell you what, Landis,” he said, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “I’m willing to take a risk. I’m sure of one thing. Miss West hasn’t even heard of your inquiries.”