He flashed another of his penetrating sidewise glances at her half-averted face. She saw his hands working in that spasmodic way of his—the long, sinister fingers which she had watched perform such surgical marvels. But she would not shudder, not even when he added:
"Well, let us see if these cousins can save you when trouble arises, Fräulein. You have laid your intentions open to serious question by giving the military authorities but part of your name. Unwise—unwise. But fear not because of me, my dear Fräulein," he added in German. "I am your friend."
"Now let us look at the rest of these wounded," he pursued roughly, passing on to Number Nineteen.
He was approaching the aviator. Belinda, now a step behind the surgeon, watched Sanderson's face with anxious eyes.
Was there a change coming into the pallid, bearded countenance? Could it be possible that Doctor Herschall would recognize the aviator in his present guise?
Sanderson's lips trembled. Color was rising in his cheeks. The anxious girl knew what the change meant.
Suppose, in the moment of coming back to consciousness, the aviator should cry out—should speak in English—should utter something in the surgeon's hearing that would betray his identity?
The girl hurried forward. As Sanderson's eyes opened with that look of perplexity in them that is usually their expression when the patient comes out of syncope, Belinda was saying in German:
"Doctor, here is one who has just been brought in—an aviator. He fell last night in a duel, in which he destroyed a French flying-man and his machine."
"Hum! Indeed? I heard of that," the Herr Doktor said, showing some interest. "One of my assistants set his shoulder. Hum! As long as he goes on all right he'll not need my attention."