When at length he rose and drew away it was with all stealth, as though he too moved in the shadow of awful terror bred of a nameless crime....
Once more at Peter Kenny's door, his diffident fingers evoked from the bell but a single chirp—a sound that would by no means have gained him admission had Peter not been sitting up in bed, reading to while away the ache of his wound.
But it was ordered so; Peter was quick to answer the door; and P. Sybarite, pulling himself together (now that he had audience critical of his demeanour) walked in with a very tolerable swagger—with a careless, good-humoured nod for his host and a quick look round the room to make certain they were alone.
"Doctor been?"
"Oh—an hour ago."
"And—?"
"Says I'm all right if blood-poisoning doesn't set in."
Shutting the door, Peter grinned not altogether happily. "That's one of the most fetching features of the new code of medical ethics, you know—complete confidence inspired in patient by utter frankness on doctor's part—and all that!...
"'An insignificant puncture,'" he mimicked: "'you'll be right as rain in a week—unless the wound decides to gangrene—it's apt to, all on its own, 'spite of anything we can do—in which case we'll have to amputate your body to prevent infection spreading to your head.'...
"Well?" he wound up almost gaily. "What luck?"