“You have been afraid?” her husband asked quickly. “Why so?”
The boy moved uneasily and turned his head to watch his father.
“What you got my knife for?” he demanded. “Give me my knife!”
“You shall never, never have it again!” his mother moaned, clasping him more tightly.
“Why not?” he asked curiously. “What’s the matter with Dora? Why’s she lying on my bed? Tell her to get up. I am tired. Oscar wants to go to bed.”
His eyelids fell and rose, as though the long search for the mysterious thing in his mind had put him into a doze.
“He does not seem to know what he has done. What is it? Olaf, what is the matter with him?”
“Ssh, hush! Don’t rouse him. Get him to bed. Don’t let him know. I’ll look after Dora—she’s coming around now—and then I’ll call Vessinger, if it is necessary.”
“No! no! not him,” she protested vehemently. “I don’t want him to see, to know anything about it,—no one, but he least of all.”
Simmons looked mystified by her vehemence.