“I was just going to call you,” exclaimed Nurse Hall. “The men seem all to have arrived.”
Vera consulted her wrist watch. “The inquest was called for two o’clock; they are prompt.”
“To the minute,” agreed her companion. “Are you going downstairs immediately?”
“No, not until sent for.” Vera turned and wandered restlessly about the room, taking care, however, that her footfall made no sound which might disturb Craig Porter. She stopped in the shadow of a large wing chair and regarded the motionless figure on the bed long and intently. When she looked away she found Nurse Hall at her side.
“Does he always stare straight before him?” she asked, almost below her breath.
“Yes.” Nurse Hall shuddered. “Always that same fixed stare. You can bless your stars that you have him at night when he is generally asleep. Sometimes he gives me the creeps.”
“Does he never speak?”
“No, never, and I don’t believe he ever will; the muscles of his throat are paralyzed. But you need not whisper”—raising her voice. “He doesn’t understand a word we say.”
“But our talking may annoy him.” The older woman colored; she was sensitive about her voice, never having been able to conquer its shrill quality, and she did not take kindly to any criticism of her conduct of a sick room, especially from a younger and more inexperienced nurse. Vera laid a quiet hand on her arm. “Forgive the suggestion, but I cannot rid myself of the belief that often those we think unconscious hear and understand more than we imagine.”
“Tut, my dear, not in this case. Mr. Porter understands nothing said to him, even by his mother; and it’s been that way from the first,” Nurse Hall added, seating herself in the armchair. “I was here when they brought him back from Europe, and I must say that Dr. Noyes has worked wonders—”