“Wild,” he answered. “When are they going to let me out? When? When?” The little Red Doctor had given me no hint upon this point. So I said non-committally: “Soon, I think,” and moved around the bed to where an easy-chair invited. It was a wicker chair, broad-seated, wide-armed, and welcoming, a chair made conformable and gracious by long usage, a chair for lovers, for high hopes and for dreams, a chair to solace troubles and soothe weariness. Into it I would have dropped gratefully, when the sick man's fingers closed on my wrist like the jaws of an animal, and I was all but jerked from my feet.
“Not there!” he snarled insanely. “Not there!”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, much discomposed.
“I didn't mean to hurt you,” he returned with a return to that habitual gentleness of address which, by its contrast with his formidable physique, gave him the aspect of a kindly and companionable bear. “But if you don't mind sitting here on the bed? Or yonder on the sofa? Or anywhere except—”
“Not in the least,” I assured him. “The fact is, I detest wicker chairs anyway. I had to get rid of mine.”
“Did you? Why?”
“It was no companion for an old, lonely man.”
The Gnome clutched me again. His fingers quivered as they bit into my arm.
“I know! It whispered. Didn't it?”
I nodded.