The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.
“Lock it, steward. Place it beside me.... Next the wall.... So.... Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a—pistol.”
“Sir?”
“A pistol. Where is it?”
The steward’s roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland’s up-turned palm.
The young man’s fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.
“Do you feel better, sir?”
“I’m tired.... Yes, I feel—better.”
“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?” 209
“Stay outside—my door.”