“Inga,” he said slowly, and, already half returned to the land of confused dreams, he dropped his hands and turned his face toward her voice, a clouded, perplexed look in his eyes. She dropped on one knee and met his glance, smiling.
“It’s all right; nothing’s happened. You’re in your studio, safe,” she said, as though she were talking to a child.
“Safe enough for the time being,” said Doctor Fortier, breaking in in quick, staccato tones.
Dangerfield shot around, gazed in the direction of his enemy, and putting out his hands as though to ward him off, collapsed.
Every one was impressed by the effect Doctor Fortier’s voice had produced.
“Take him away, quick—to your room; keep him there!” said Inga, hastily.
“Come along, you!” said O’Leary, with a sudden tightening hold on the other man’s throat, for he had begun to divine his maneuver. “And no tricks, or I might get to squeezing. Loosen up his feet—that’s it! Come on!”
Tootles was stationed in the hall to watch the passage over the roofs, to guard against the possibility of a return attack, and only Belle Shaler remained, at Inga’s direction seating herself in a further corner to give an instant alarm.
The fumes of the chloroform seemed to have closed over Dangerfield’s consciousness once more. He moved and stretched out his fingers, seeking the glass of water she held to them to ease the heat of his throat. The cool draft seemed momentarily to bring pleasant intervals in his dream, for he began to laugh and to hum to himself, calling out names unfamiliar to her—brother artists, perhaps, of youthful days—the whole intermixed with snatches of French.