"Come—please," he begged gently.
She made an effort to rise, sat up on the bed, dabbed at her eyes with a sodden wisp of handkerchief, and groped blindly for the glass. He offered it to her lips.
"What is it?" she whispered hoarsely.
He spoke of the mixture in disparaging terms as to its potency, until at length she consented to swallow it—teeth chattering on the rim of the tumbler. The effect was quickly apparent in the colour that came into her cheeks, faint but warm. He avoided looking directly at her, however, and cast round for the bell-push, which he presently found near the head of the bed.
She moved quickly with alarm.
"What are you going to do?" she demanded in a stronger voice.
"Order you something to eat," he said. "No—please don't object. You need food, and I mean to see you get it before I leave."
If she thought of protesting, the measured determination in his manner deterred her. After a moment she asked:
"Please—who are you?"
"My name is Whitaker," he said—"Hugh Morten Whitaker."