"Why?" I cried. "Do you think I ought to send for them?"
"Send for them?" he echoed. "Send for them? And you in the grip of C.S.M.! It would be sheer madness—murder!"
The cold sweat stood out upon my brow but I kept my head.
"Have an apple, won't you, Mr. Burnett?"
He selected the largest and began to munch it in silence—silence, that is, as far as talking was concerned.
"Tell me," I stammered; "wh—what is C.S.M.? And may I have a look at myself?"
He cogitated. "Shall I?" he muttered. "Yes, I think he ought to know." Then quite quietly, accompanied by the core of the apple, there fell from his lips the fatal words "Cerebro-spinal meningitis."
At the same time he handed me the glass and selected the next best apple.
I looked at myself. My hair stood straight on end; my face was whitish-yellow, my eyes blazed with unmistakable fever. A three-days' beard enhanced the horrible effect.
"Have you any pain—there?" One of his large soft hands gripped my side and pinched it hard, the other selected the third best apple.