badly out of his depth, but is not man enough to acknowledge the fact even to himself.”
She smiled at me pathetically.
“Whatever should I have done if I had been alone?” she said.
I was tempted to direct the conversation into a purely personal channel, but common sense prevailed, and:
“Is Madame de Stämer awake?” I asked.
“Yes.” The girl nodded. “Dr. Rolleston is with her now.”
“And does she know?”
“Yes. She sent for me directly she awoke, and asked me.”
“And you told her?”
“How could I do otherwise? She was quite composed, wonderfully composed; and the way she heard the news was simply heroic. But here is Dr. Rolleston, coming now.”
I glanced along the corridor, and there was the physician approaching briskly.
“Good morning, Mr. Knox,” he said.
“Good morning, doctor. I hear that your patient is much improved?”
“Wonderfully so,” he answered. “She has enough courage for ten men. She wishes to see you, Mr. Knox, and to hear your account of the tragedy.”
“Do you think it would be wise?”
“I think it would be best.”
“Do you hold any hope of her permanently recovering the use of her limbs?”
Dr. Rolleston shook his head doubtfully.
“It may have only been temporary,” he replied. “These obscure nervous affections are very fickle. It is unsafe to make predictions. But mentally, at
