Dunham lay in a stupor for twenty-four hours, and after that he was delirious, with dim intervals of reason in which they kept him from talking, till one morning he woke and looked up at Staniford with a perfectly clear eye, and said, as if resuming the conservation, “I struck my head on a pile of chains.”
“Yes,” replied Staniford, with a wan smile, “and you've been out of it pretty near ever since. You mustn't talk.”
“Oh, I'm all right,” said Dunham. “I know about my being hurt. I shall be cautious. Have you written to Miss Hibbard? I hope you haven't!”
“Yes, I have,” replied Staniford. “But I haven't sent the letter,” he added, in answer to Dunham's look of distress. “I thought you were going to pull through, in spite of the doctor,—he's wanted to bleed you, and I could hardly keep his lancet out of you,—and so I wrote, mentioning the accident and announcing your complete restoration. The letter merely needs dating and sealing. I'll look it up and have it posted.” He began a search in the pockets of his coat, and then went to his portfolio.
“What day is this?” asked Dunham.
“Friday,” said Staniford, rummaging his portfolio.
“Have you been in Venice?”
“Look here, Dunham! If you begin in that way, I can't talk to you. It shows that you're still out of your head. How could I have been in Venice?”
“But Miss Blood; the Aroostook—”
“Miss Blood went to Venice with her uncle last Saturday. The Aroostook is here in Trieste. The captain has just gone away. He's stood watch and watch with me, while you were off on business.”