“Just that it isn’t enough for me, that’s all! She may have typhus or smallpox—”
“Hell!” The man jumped backward so quickly that he upset a small table and chair.
“Damn her!” screamed the woman, retreating to the wall.
Carlson, being a doctor and often in contact with contagious and loathsome diseases, had not counted on the terrifying effect of the word “smallpox” on the criminals he was for the moment associated with. But he instantly realized the advantage it gave him, and decided to capitalize it to the limit in the mysterious woman’s interests.
After a short but tense silence he said impressively:
“Yes, it may be smallpox. But I cannot say for certain in this light.”
The masked man waited a few uneasy seconds, then went to the chandelier and raised a hand to the light key.
“Teresa. See that the bandage is tight over her face before I turn on more light.” His voice was surly.
“I won’t touch her again if she has smallpox!” Teresa’s strident voice shook.
“Yes, you will, or I’ll brain you.” He took a step toward her.