“Not to-night,” Miriam’s charming smile softened her refusal. “You must go to sleep.”
“With that howl still ringing in my ears!” Mrs. Nash’s shudder was no affectation, but a true indication of her state of mind. “What possessed the woman?”
“Hysterics,” briefly. “Now, Mrs. Nash, you really must close your eyes.”
“In a minute. Sit down just a second.” Mrs. Nash’s tone could be coaxing when she wished. “I’ll do whatever you say if you will answer a few questions.”
“I can’t promise.”
“Now, don’t be obstinate.” Mrs. Nash glanced at her shrewdly. “If you irritate me, I’ll not sleep at all,” and she squared her shoulders with an air of determination which made Miriam’s heart sink. She knew, none better, that often temper and temperature went hand and hand in the sick room. Humoring a patient was occasionally a short cut to health as well as peace.
“What is it you wish to know?” she asked, sitting down.
Mrs. Nash smiled, well pleased with having gained her point.
“What killed Paul?” she asked, and at Miriam’s frown, added hastily: “There is nothing in that question to send my temperature skyward. Was he poisoned?”
“No; stabbed.” Miriam met her piercing black eyes steadily, while wondering at the concentration of her regard. Mrs. Nash sat bolt upright.