he finished, twisting out the corkscrew. Then he came over and sat down on the bed. “Well,” he said judicially, “since you drag it from me, I think perhaps it is. You—you’re such a confirmed woman-hater that I hardly knew how you would take it.” “Nothing of the sort,” I denied testily. “Because a man reaches the age of thirty without making maudlin love to every—” “I’ve taken to long country rides,” he went on reflectively, without listening to me, “and yesterday I ran over a sheep; nearly went into the ditch. But there’s a Providence that watches over fools and lovers, and just now I know darned well that I’m one, and I have a sneaking idea I’m both.” “You are both,” I said with disgust. “If you can be rational for one moment, I wish you would tell me why that man Sullivan called me over the telephone yesterday morning.” “Probably hadn’t yet discovered the Bronson notes—providing you hold to your theory that the theft was incidental to the murder. May have wanted his own clothes again, or to thank you for yours. Search me: I can’t think of anything else.” The doctor came in just then. As I said before, I think a lot of my doctor—when I am ill. He is a young man, with an air of breezy self-confidence and good humor. He looked directly past the bottle, which is a very valuable accomplishment, and shook hands with McKnight until I could put the cigarettes under the bedclothes. He had interdicted tobacco. Then he sat down beside the bed and felt around the bandages with hands as gentle as a baby’s. “Pretty good shape,” he said. “How did you sleep?” “Oh, occasionally,” I replied. “I would like to sit up, doctor.” “Nonsense. Take a rest while you have an excuse for it. I wish to thunder I could stay in bed for a day or so. I was up all night.” “Have a drink,” McKnight said, pushing over the bottle. “Twins!” The doctor grinned. “Have two drinks.” But the medical man refused. “I wouldn’t even wear a champagne-colored necktie during business hours,” he explained. “By the way, I had another case from your accident, Mr. Blakeley, late yesterday afternoon. Under the tongue, please.” He stuck a thermometer in my mouth. I had a sudden terrible vision of the amateur detective coming to light, note-book, cheerful impertinence and incriminating data. “A small man?” I demanded, “gray hair—” “Keep your mouth closed,” the doctor said peremptorily. “No. A woman, with a fractured skull. Beautiful case. Van Kirk was up to his eyes and sent for me. Hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils—all the trimmings. Worked for two hours.” “Did she recover?” McKnight put in. He was examining the doctor with a new awe. “She lifted her right arm before I left,” the doctor finished cheerily, “so the operation was a success, even if she should die.” “Good Heavens,” McKnight broke in, “and I thought you were just an ordinary mortal, like the rest of us! Let me touch you for luck. Was she pretty?”