"I cannot explain now. You must trust me."
"How?" she cried, imperatively. "I will know." A light was dawning on her. She was recalling a case of which she had read in some old paper where the doctor lost his life to save the patient.
Danby frowned slightly, and his face looked worn and old. He was unaccustomed to be doubted or to have his authority questioned.
"If you will know, I shall insert this in the throat," he replied, deliberately advancing towards the cot, "and remove the mucus by suction."
"But you might catch the disease?"
"Possibly."
"You might—you might die?"
"Well?"
He was bending towards the child, and gently rubbing the tube with his handkerchief. With a sudden movement she flung herself between him and the crib, and placed her outstretched palms against his broad chest.
"You—shall—not!"