Part 11 (2/2)
”Nothing more need be said about it?”
”Nothing more,” Dr. Marcellin a.s.sured her. ”If you will come in I will give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here.”
”Is she necessary?” inquired Marjory. ”I have engaged the next apartment for myself and maid.”
”That is very good, but--Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the present. Will you come in?”
She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor of ether hung still heavier.
She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it.
”Edhart,” he called. ”Oh, Edhart!”
CHAPTER VII
THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT
Under proper conditions, being wounded in the shoulder may have its pleasant features. They were not so obvious to Monte in the early part of the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled with ether; but sometime before dawn he woke up feeling fairly normal and clear-headed and interested. This was where fifteen years of clean living counted for something. When Marcellin and his a.s.sistant had first stripped Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly outlined as in an anatomical ill.u.s.tration.
Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his shoulder, and he was not quite certain as to where he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at the other end of the room--a shadow that rustled and came toward him. It is small wonder that he was startled.
”Who the deuce are you?” he inquired in plain English.
”Monsieur is not to sit up,” the shadow answered in plain French.
Monte repeated his question, this time in French.
”I am the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin,” she informed him.
”Monsieur is not to talk.”
She placed her hand below his neck and helped him to settle down again upon his pillow. Then she rustled off again beyond the range of the shaded electric light.
”What happened?” Monte called into the dark.
Then he thought he heard a door open, and further rustling, and a whispered conversation.
”Who's that?” he demanded.
It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he tried again to make his elbow. Mademoiselle appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand beneath his neck, lowered him once more to his pillow.
”Turn up the light, will you?” requested Monte.
”But certainly not,” answered the nurse. ”Monsieur is to lie very quiet and sleep.”
”I can't sleep.”
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