He knit his brows. Then he saw the knife in my hand, and bit his lip. It did not occur to me, then, to put the knife away.
We were silent again. Then—“Take me to the Wagon-lits,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I cried, “we will take care of you here,”
He shook his head, and again bit his lip. “I want to go to the Wagon-lits,” he repeated.
“In one moment, sir.” It was the manager, talking over my shoulder. I stared; for I had not heard him approach. “In a moment, sir. The automobile, it will be here.”
After all, it was better so, if he could stand it. And doubtless he could.
He was looking again at the knife in my hand. I held it up and stared at it. There was a little blood on it, near the point. He reached out, and I gave it to him. It was his property, not mine Very deliberately he drew the sheath from his pocket, put the knife into it, and thrust it into his side pocket. But he thought differently of this; for a moment later, when he thought I was not looking, he transferred it to his inside breast pocket. I wondered a little at this. Then it occurred to me that he feared it might be observed by others, there in the side pocket.
An automobile drew up before the building.
“I have telephone for the doctor,” said the manager. “It is that he will await us at the Wagon-lits.”
Then we carried Crocker out on his cot—the manager, three Chinamen, and I. He was very heavy. And they took him away. He did not look at me again, or speak to me. And I, of course, said nothing.