I drew up and ducked aside to avoid recognition, but she halted under
the lamp and called to me, in no very severe voice--
"Harry!"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"You are late, and I have been needing you. Mr. Stimcoe is suffering
from an attack."
"Indeed, ma'am?" said I. "Shall I run for Dr. Spargo?"
She stood for a moment considering. "No," she decided; "I had better
fetch Dr. Spargo myself. Being more familiar with the symptoms, I
can describe them to him."
More familiar with the symptoms, poor woman, she undoubtedly was,
though I was familiar enough; and so, for the matter of that, was the
doctor, whose ledger must have registered at least a dozen similar
"attacks." But I understood at once her true reason for not
entrusting me with the errand. It would require all her courage, all
her magnificent impudence, to browbeat Dr. Spargo into coming, for I
doubt if the Stimcoes had ever paid him a stiver.
"But you can be very useful," she went on, in a tone unusually
gentle. "You will find Mr. Stimcoe in his bedroom--at least, I hope
so, for he suffers from a hallucination that some person or persons
unknown have incarcerated him in a French war-prison, such being the
effect of to-day's--er--proceedings upon his highly strung nature.
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