“From the heart willingly, mein Herr,” answered the boy, who had a solemn face and a complete lack of humor.
“Wait, then, three minutes, and then—suddenly—do it.”
The three minutes passed in silence; no sound in the room, save the clicking of Carshaw’s knife and fork, and the ply of Rachel Craik’s knitting-needles. Then the boy lounged away to the farther end of the room; and suddenly, with a bump, he was on the floor and in the promised fit.
“Halloo!” cried Carshaw, while from both Winifred and Rachel came little cries of alarm—for a fit has the same effect as a mouse on the nerves of women.
“He’s in a fit!” screamed the aunt.
“Please do something for him!” cried Winifred to Carshaw, with a face of distress. But he would not stir from his seat. The boy still kicked and writhed, lying on his face and uttering blood-curdling sounds. This was easy. He had only to make bitter plaint in the German tongue.
“Oh, aunt,” said Winifred, half risen, yet hesitating for fear, “do help that poor fellow!”
Whereupon Miss Craik leaped up, caught the water-jug from the table with a rather withering look at Carshaw, and hurried toward the boy. Winifred went after her and Carshaw went after Winifred.
The older woman turned the boy over, bent down, dipped her fingers in the water, and sprinkled his forehead. Winifred stood a little behind her, bending also. Near her, too, Carshaw bent over the now quiet form of the boy.
A piece of paper touched Winifred’s palm—the note again. This time her fingers closed on it and quickly stole into her pocket.