She did not take her eyes from his face; the appeal, terror, in them seemed to strike him dumb. It was as though his own throat were closed, for several times he tried vainly to speak.
"Ernestine," he said at last, "Karl is very sick."
"How—sick?" she managed to whisper.
"How—sick?" she repeated as he stood there looking at her helplessly.
And, finally, he said, as if it were killing him to do it—"So sick that—"
"Don't say that!"—she fairly hissed it at him.
"Don't dare say that! You did it—you——" And then, sinking down beside him, catching hold of his hand, she sobbed out, wildly, heartbreakingly—"Oh, Dr. Parkman—oh, please—please tell me you will save Karl!"
Her sobs were becoming uncontrollable. "Ernestine," he said, sharply—"be quiet. Be quiet! You have got to help."
The sobs stopped; she rose to her feet. He pulled up a chair for her, but she did not sit down. A few sobs still came, but her face was becoming stern, set.
"Tell me," she said, holding her two hands tight against her breast, and looking him straight in the face.