"This morning. About eight o'clock."
In his anxiety Rathbone was beyond any considerations of concealment; the revelation was absolute when, at the hotel, he took Osterhout directly to the suite of rooms, as one having the right. Mona greeted the newcomer with a smile, grateful, pleading, pitiful. Mutely it said: "Don't be too harsh in your judgment of me."
Hardening himself to his professional state of mind, Osterhout made his swift, assured, detailed examination.
"What's the verdict?" whispered Mona.
He nodded encouragingly. "You'll be all right," he said reassuringly. From his case he produced some pellets.
"Not an opiate?" she asked rebelliously. "I want to talk to you."
"No. It's a stimulant. But I think you'd better not try to talk for a while."
"I must ... Sid, dear, go into the other room, won't you?"
Rathbone nodded, speechless for the moment. His hollowed eyes were full of the slow tears of relief. He bent over the sick woman's face for a moment and was gone, obediently.