He waved his thin, emaciated hand in the air as he spoke.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter in the least,” said Jennie. “I have several other bottles here in my satchel.”
The Professor placed his hands on the arms of his chair, and slowly raised himself to his feet.
“You have others,” he cried, “other bottles? Let me see them—let me see them!”
“No,” replied Jennie, “I won’t.”
With a speed which, after his recent collapse, Jennie had not expected, the Professor ambled round to the door and placed his back against it. The glasses over his eyes seemed to sparkle as if with fire. His talon-like fingers crooked rigidly. He breathed rapidly, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement.
“Who knows you came up to see me?” he whispered hoarsely, glaring at her.
Jennie, having arisen, stood there, smoothing down her perfectly fitting glove, and answered with a calmness she was far from feeling,—
“Who knows I am here? No one but the Director of Police.”
“Oh, the Director of Police!” echoed the Professor, quite palpably abashed by the unexpected answer. The rigidity of his attitude relaxed, and he became once more the old man he had appeared as he sat in a heap in his chair. “You will excuse me,” he muttered, edging round towards the chair again; “I was excited.”