"I think not," he said, with a curious air of deliberation.
"I'll come and see you to-morrow, my boy."
Henry nodded carelessly, and turned to Higgins.
"I'm ready," he said briefly.
"One moment," said Burton. "How is your cut finger? I think I'd better look at it before you go." And without waiting for permission, he picked up Henry's hand and examined the forefinger which had been cut the evening before. Henry had dressed it carelessly with court-plaster, but it was evident that the finger was both stiff and sore.
But Henry was far from being a model patient. He pulled his hand away with a look of surprise and resentment at Burton's touch. "That's nothing," he said impatiently. "What are you waiting for, Higgins?"
"You," replied Higgins succinctly, slipping his hand under Henry's elbow.
Dr. Underwood followed the little procession downstairs and did not notice that Burton lingered for a moment in the room. He lingered without moving until Henry was out of eyeshot, and then jumped to the sofa and ran his long fingers between the upholstered back and seat. It did not take more than a minute to satisfy his curiosity. Then he hurried downstairs, where he found a forlorn group.
Mrs. Underwood, tragically calm, sat like a classic statue of despair in a large armchair, while the doctor, who had evidently been explaining the situation to his family, limped painfully and restlessly about the room. Leslie, erect, and with hands clenched and head thrown back, followed him with her eyes.
"I think Henry is insane," she said deliberately.