She lay silent for a while, looking up at the roof. Presently she said,—
“I imagine that I am badly hurt. Please tell me how and where I am injured.”
“Well, your left leg was hurt, and we shall have to keep it bandaged and your knee from bending. And there were some bruises on your side, and an injury to the scalp.”
“My scalp?” she quickly asked, raising her hand and asking, “Surely you did not shave my head?”
“No,” he replied, smiling amusedly; “except a small spot, and you can cover that until the hair grows out.”
She was not fully satisfied until she had felt the splendid wealth of hair that lay massed upon the pillow.
“May I ask who you are?” This was the question that he had dreaded most of all; but before he could stammer out the truth a light broke over her face, and she astounded him with this exclamation:
“Oh, you are the famous Dr. Mal-bone! This is extraordinary! I am very, very fortunate.”
Wilder had never conceived a lie so dazzling and happy as this mistake. Between wonder at his stupidity for not having thought of it, and a great delight that she had so naturally erred, he was too bewildered either to affirm or deny. He only realized that she had unwittingly solved the most difficult of his present problems. Had she been looking at him, she might have wondered at the strange expression that lighted up his face, and particularly the crimson temporarily displacing the death-like pallor that she had observed.
“Yes,” she resumed, after a pause, “I am fortunate; for I suppose that my injuries are a great deal worse than you have given me to believe, and that such skill as yours is needed.” She turned her glance again full upon him; but he had recovered his address, and now met her look with an approach to steadiness. “But,” she said, “you are a much younger man than I had expected to see; and you don’t look so crabbed as I might have inferred you were from the message you sent me a month ago.”