Her courage almost failed her. She lay back, her eyes closed and her face colorless. The word itself was little more than a whisper.
Her father opened the door and went out. She heard him going down the stairs, heard other footsteps that followed him, and listened in an agony of fear that Doyle would drop him in the hall below. But nothing happened. The outside door closed, and after a moment she opened her eyes. Doyle was standing by the bed.
“So,” he said, “you intend to give me the pleasure of your society for some time, do you?”
She said nothing. She was past any physical fear for herself.
“You liar!” he said softly. “Do you think I don't understand why you want to remain here? You are cleverer than I thought you were, but you are not as clever as I am. You'd have done better to have let him take you away.”
“You would have killed him first.”
“Perhaps I would.” He lighted a cigarette. “But it is a pleasant thought to play with, and I shall miss it when the thing is fait accompli. I see Olga has left you without ice water. Shall I bring you some?”
He was still smiling faintly when he brought up the pitcher, some time later, and placed it on the stand beside the bed.