“Keep your eyes open to-night, Miss Keate. If anything occurs like last night, ’phone to me immediately. Here’s my number. I’ll sleep right by the telephone. Thanks. Good-night.”
But before taking five steps he whirled back to me.
“By the way, Miss Keate,” he said in a low voice so that the little cluster of white-clad nurses around the dumbwaiter could not hear him. “By the way, it seems peculiar that after the inquest when the matter of your seeing this hypodermic needle was brought to light so publicly, no one tried to retrieve it. One wonders why. And another thing—I should like to know where this Jim Gainsay spent the time between your meeting him at the corner of the porch, and his starting to town in Dr. Letheny’s car. There are, according to your story, about fifteen minutes unaccounted for——Good-night, again.”
I did not return to the south wing until midnight. I found only Maida there for second watch, Miss Dotty having arranged the schedule of nursing hours on its old basis, thus depriving us of our temporary increased help. I thought it somewhat presumptuous of Miss Dotty, who, after all, is only superintendent of nurses and has no jurisdiction over our wing. Olma Flynn had been placed on first watch, as formerly, and on relieving her she assured me that everything was going well and though the new patient in Eighteen was a trifle restless, I had expected that, so I thought nothing of it.
Olma had locked the south door and its key hung peacefully on its customary nail. Under Maida’s understanding gaze I took the key from the nail and slipped it under an order pad on the chart desk; if anyone wanted it that night he should have to ask for it!
I hadn’t been on the floor ten minutes when Eighteen’s light went on; upon answering it I found my patient sitting bolt upright in bed, with the small light over the bed glowing brightly.
“I don’t like this bed, nurse!” he said. His rumpled gray hair gave him a rather ferocious aspect and his pajama coat was all wrinkled and twisted from flouncing around on the bed.
His words gave me rather a turn for, as far as that went, I didn’t like the bed myself. But I advanced coolly enough and began straightening the tossed sheets and blanket.
“What is the matter with it?” I asked, in my professionally comfortable voice. I was not prepared for his reply.
“It feels like a coffin,” he said, staring gloomily at his feet.