Still writhing, Gilbert emitted an occasional moan. He tossed about incessantly, his small hands groping upward.
"How long's he been like that?" asked Dr. Philemon, rubbing his palms for warmth. He was a big man, almost as big as Timothy himself, and he cast a long, ungainly shadow on the wall.
"Since noon;" replied Agatha, monotonously. "He's been—delirious. Talks about all sorts of things—just babbles. His fever's awful."
Dr. Philemon shook his head.
"Trouble here, trouble at home, trouble everywhere!" he chanted as he went to the bedside.
"Trouble at home?" asked Agatha, casting a quick glance to the corner in which her husband stood in attentive silence.
"Yes. The whole town will hear about it in the morning!"
"About what?"
The doctor scowled into her face. His voice became hoarse. Pounding his fist on the back of a chair, he exclaimed: "I've been robbed, that's what—robbed!"
Agatha stepped back in well-simulated amazement. Her mouth hung open, her eyes were circles. Before speaking, she turned toward her husband as if to inform him of the physician's astonishing declaration. Then she gasped:
"You've been robbed?".
"Yes. Over five hundred dollars worth of stuff! Right in my home!"
"Wh-when?"
"This very night! Before I came here. Lord knows it was no easy matter to hitch up and travel through this storm—four miles—while my own wife is home, half crazy after this night. All her valuables are gone—lost. The safe broken open—it wasn't a safe; just a rotten old box anybody could break through with a—a good chisel or something. I wouldn't have come if your husband hadn't told me how sick the boy was. Let's look at him."
But Agatha was not satisfied. She wanted to hear the details of the doctor's story; she had committed herself to the task of aiding her husband in his struggle against the law—and it was well to know the enemy's information.
"When did you find out about this—this robbery, doctor?" she queried.
"When? When, your husband telephoned me, that's when. I went down to the office to answer the call, and there I saw the little safe—open. Everything—money and jewels—gone. Oh, I 'phoned everybody with authority in the village. Pulled 'em out of bed. In the morning there'll be an investigation."
From the dark corner issued Timothy's voice, resonant and deep and vibrant:
"Hope they find the thief, doctor. It'll be hard to lose that much money."
"Hard? I work for it hard enough—traveling four miles through a storm at two o'clock in the morning, and four miles home again—when my own wife is as nervous as—as—"
"Sorry," muttered Agatha, "but the boy was very sick."
And as if to vindicate her, Gilbert began to moan. His head tossed from side to side. He did not seem to notice the doctor's presence until his wrist was firmly gripped between searching fingers. Then he looked up, squinted inquiringly.
"Who are you?" he asked, almost threateningly.
"Quiet, my boy, quiet," murmured the physician, eying his watch as he felt the boy's pulse. He was forced to bend toward the lamp, and he did not see the wordless messages passing between Timothy and Agatha Cruze.
"Who are you?" repeated Gilbert.
"Sh! Quiet, boy. . . . Mrs. Cruze, can't I get better light? This flickering wick is bad for the eyes. Can't see—"
"I'm sorry," apologized Agatha. "We have no other lamp."
"Hum!"
Again Timothy's voice rumbled out of the darkness:
"Maybe I could hold a match over the watch, Dr. Philemon. The light might be better."
"Thanks, no."
The physician was frowning. So annoying a lack of household conveniences forced one to forget professional dignity. He was chilled, bad-humored; the prospect of the four-mile journey home, through the steady rain, deprived him of all cheer. He grumbled indistinctly and suddenly stopped.
Astounded, he was gaping upon the sick Gilbert. The boy had raised himself on his elbow. He glared toward his father's corner, a wild, feverish light lending glittering brilliance to his small eyes. He coughed, gulped, then cried: "Pop, is this the doctor? Is this Dr. Philemon?"
He did not wait for a reply; he fell back upon the pillow, laughing deliriously, and his little lips began to prattle hysterically:
"Dr. Philemon—Philemon—the doctor! We're rich now, ain't we. Pop! Ain't we, Mom? . . . Oh, we're rich! You got the doctor's money, didn't you Pop? . . . Is it wrong to steal, Pop? It ain't wrong. . . . No crops, you said, didn't you? . . . She bought diamonds and fancy dresses. . . . But you got the money, didn't you, Pop? . . . From the toy-safe . . . Does the doctor know you took it? . . . Tell him! Tell him! . . . Hide the things in the closet, Mom, before the doctor comes. That's right—in the closet-on the third shelf. . . . There they are, out the shelf in the closet—a watch and something else and money. We're rich now, ain't we, Pop? Ain't we, Mom? . . ."
Gilbert subsided to an incoherent drool, chattering of money and jewels and the closet. He was squirming under the covers.
But no longer did Dr. Philemon listen to the boy. He had turned; he was staring queerly into the terrified eyes of Agatha Cruze. Behind the woman stood her husband, big and menacing and glowering furiously. They were speechless. Dr. Philemon drew in his lips, peered sidewise at the closet. Then, with unexpected vigor, he sprang across the somber room, pulled open the closet door, thrust his hand over the third shelf, and—
"So" he cried softly. "So—you took it, Cruze!"
His fingers fondled the jewels. Over them his eyes gleamed in the fantastic glow of the lamp. He came very close to Timothy. His fat face was thrust forward so that his breath fell warmly upon the farmer's cheeks.
"So!" he whispered. "So! Well, I'm going to the village; and you'll be in jail before the night's over, Cruze! I'll have you in jail, or—"
Timothy's huge hands plunged forward and fastened themselves to Dr. Philemon's chest.
"You ain't going to do nothing of the kind!" tremulously declared the thief. "You ain't!"
"Oh, I ain't, ain't I?" jeered the physician. "We'll see about that. Let go of me!"
"You ain't!" insisted Timothy. His voice had sunk to a low, harsh rasp, He curtly told his wife, "Agatha, lock the door."
But Agatha did not move. She stood stupefied, unable to speak. The sudden flood of events against her, against her husband, had overwhelmed the woman. Tall, bony, erect, she gazed at the doctor. One thought charged repeatedly through her mind:
They were caught—they were caught—they were caught—
Though her eyes saw, she was not certain of what occurred during the following few minutes.
