"You certainly can't move until you are better," she said. "You'll
have to stay. It can't be helped but--father will have a fit."
"A fit?" murmured Spence. Privately he thought that a fit might do
the old gentleman good.
"He hates having anyone here," she went on thoughtfully. "It upsets
him."
"Does it? But why? I can understand it upsetting you. But he--he
doesn't do the work, does he?"
"Not exactly," the girl smiled. "But--oh well, I don't believe in
explanations. You'll see things for your-self, perhaps. And now I'll
get you a book. I won't warn you not to move for I know you can't."
With a glance which, true to her promise, was not overburdened with
sympathy, his strangely acquired hostess went out and closed the
door.
He tried to read the book she had handed him ("Green Mansions"--ho-r
had it wandered out here?) but his mind could not detach itself. It
insisted upon listening for sounds outside. And presently a sound
came--the high, thin sound of a voice shaking with weakness or rage.
Then the cool tones of his absent nurse, then the voice again--
certainly a most unpleasant voice--and the crashing sound of
something being violently thrown to the ground and stamped upon.
Through the closed door, the professor seemed to see a vision of an
absurd old man with pale eyes, who shrieked and stamped upon an
umbrella.
"That," said Hamilton Spence, with resignation, "that must be father
having a fit!"
CHAPTER IV
Letter from Professor Hamilton Spence to his friend, John Rogers,
M.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47