“Oui, Monsieur.”
The sweat broke out in great drops on his forehead.
“Dead!” he repeated.
“Vous pouvez entrer si vous voulez,” said the sister.
Then Quixtus reeled as if some one had dealt him a crushing blow. Poynter saved him from falling and guided him to the seat. For a long, long second all was darkness. The dynamo stopped suddenly. Then, as had happened once before, a little thread seemed to snap in his brain. He opened his eyes feeling sick and giddy. The sister quickly disappeared into the room, and returned with some brandy. The others stood anxiously by. Presently the spirits took effect and enabled him to co-ordinate his faculties. With an effort of will he rose and straightened himself.
“I am better now. Let us go in.”
“Wiser not,” said Clementina, a thousand miles from suspecting the psychological phenomenon that had occurred.
Quixtus slightly raised a protesting hand.
“I assure you there is no reason why I should not go in,” he said in a shaky voice.
“All right,” said Clementina. “But you can’t go tumbling all over the place.”