"Has she opened her eyes since you came on duty?" asked Updyke.
"No—only once has she opened them I'm told, and then only to close them again," was the reply. "That happened earlier in the day. Her father was in several times, and it was pitiful the way he prayed for her life. I just couldn't help crying."
Updyke went over to the bedside and bent over the white face, scrutinizing it carefully. For nearly a minute he peered steadily at the eyelids until finally his patience was rewarded—they twitched! Noting the fact, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered as softly as his voice would carry—"Winifred," he breathed—and the eyelids fluttered.
"Wonderful!" whispered the nurse, but Updyke raised his hand indicating his desire for complete silence.
"It's time to wake up little girl—your father wants his breakfast and the booth must be opened—it's going to be a busy day."
Updyke's voice, gentle at first, was almost natural in tone at the finish. A perceptible movement of the hand and lips indicated that her condition was not so serious as Villard had feared, and his solemn face became radiant—but immediately afterward, glum, when Updyke said:
"That's all for the present—she'll wake up naturally bye and bye. It's dangerous to force the issue."
A servant bearing a message suddenly took both men out of the sick room—"Mr. Updyke is wanted on the phone."
An operative had some important news for him.
"Have put Parkins' valet through a sweat bath—got everything he knew. 'Number Nine' was with me and took down the whole story. Shall I shoot it?"