"Yes, I know she is—but what’s the matter with her?"

"Lethargica gravis, brought on by psychic trauma."

"Is that—serious?"

"Quite serious enough. If you take proper care of her, I expect she will pull through."

"Anything, doctor, anything. Money’s no object. What do we do now? Take her to a hospital?"

Potbury brushed the suggestion aside. "Worst thing in the world for her. If she wakes up intrange surroundings, she may go off again. Keep her here. Can you arrange your affairs so as to

watch her yourself?"

"You bet I can."

"Then do so. Stay with her night and day. If she wakes up, the most favorable condition will be for her to find herself in her own bed with you awake and near her."

"Oughtn’t she to have a nurse?"

"I wouldn’t say so. There isn’t much that can be done for her, except to keep her covered up warm. You might keep her feet a little higher than her head. Put a couple of books under each of the lower feet of the bed."

"Right away."

"If this condition persists for more than a week or so, we’ll have to see about glucose injections, or something of the sort." Potbury stooped over, closed his bag and picked it up. "Telephone me if there is any change in her condition."

"I will. I—" Randall stopped suddenly; the doctor’s last remark reminded him of something he had forgotten. "Doctor—how did you find your way over here?"

Potbury looked startled. "What do you mean? This place isn’t hard to find."

"But I didn’t give you the address."

"Eh? Nonsense."

"But I didn’t. I remembered the oversight just a few minutes later and called your office back, but you had already left."

"I didn’t say you gave it to me today," Potbury said testily; "you gave it to me yesterday."

Randall thought it over. He had offered Potbury his credentials the day before, but they contained only his business address. True, his home telephone was listed, but it was listed simply as a night business number, without address, both in his credentials and in the phone book. Perhaps Cynthia—

But he could not ask Cynthia and the thought of her drove minor considerations out of his mind. "Are you sure there is nothing else I should do, doctor?" he asked anxiously.

"Nothing. Stay here and watch her."

"I will. But I surely wish I were twins for a while," he added emphatically.

"Why?" Potbury inquired, as he gathered up his gloves and turned toward the door.

"That guy Hoag. I’ve got a score to settle with him. Never mind—I’ll put somebody else on his tail until I have a chance to settle his hash myself."

Potbury had wheeled around and was looking at him ominously. "You’ll do nothing of the sort. Your place is here."

"Sure, sure—but I want to keep him on ice. One of these days I’m going to take him apart to see what makes him tick!"

"Young man," Potbury said slowly, "I want you to promise me that you will have nothing to do in any way with ... with this man you mentioned."

Randall glanced toward the bed. "In view of what has happened," he said savagely, "do you think I’m going to let him get away scot-free?"

"In the name of— Look. I’m older than you are and I’ve learned to expect silliness and stupidity. Still—how much does it take to teach you that some things are too dangerous to monkey with?" He gestured toward Cynthia. "How can you expect me to be responsible for her recovery if you insist on doing things that might bring on a catastrophe?"

"But—listen, Dr. Potbury, I told you that I intended to follow your instructions about her. But I’m not going to just forget what he has done. If she dies ... if she dies, so help me, I’ll take him apart with a rusty ax!"otbury did not answer at once. When he did all he said was, "And if she doesn’t die?"

"If she doesn’t die, my first business is here, taking care of her. But don’t expect me to promise to forget Hoag. I won’t—and that’s final."

Potbury jammed his hat on his head. "We’ll let it go at that—and trust she doesn’t die. But let me tell you, young man, you’re a fool." He stomped out of the apartment.

The lift he had gotten from tangling wills with Potbury wore off in a few minutes after the doctor had gone, and a black depression settled down on him. There was nothing to do, nothing to distract his mind from the aching apprehension he felt over Cynthia. He did make the arrangements to raise the foot of the bed a little as suggested by Potbury, but it takes only a few minutes to perform such a trifling chore; when it was done he had nothing to occupy him.

In raising the foot of the bed he had been very cautious at first to avoid jarring the bed for fear of waking her; then he realized that waking her was just what he wanted most to do. Nevertheless he could not bring himself to be rough and noisy about it—she looked so helpless lying there.

He pulled a chair up close to the bed, where he could touch one of her hands and watch her closely for any change. By holding rigidly still he found that he could just perceive the rise and fall of her breast. It reassured him a little; he spent a long time watching for it—the slow, unnoticeable intake, the much quicker spilling of the breath.

Her face was pale and frighteningly deathlike, but beautiful. It wrung his heart to look at her. So fragile—she had trusted him so completely—and now there was nothing he could do for her. If he had listened to her, if he had only listened to what she had said, this would not have happened to her. She had been afraid, but she had done what he asked her to do.

Even the Sons of the Bird had not been able to frighten her—

What was he saying? Get a grip on yourself, Ed—that didn’t happen; that was part of your nightmare. Still, if anything like that had happened, that was just what she would do—stick in there and back up his play, no matter how badly things were going.

He got a certain melancholy satisfaction out of the idea that, even in his dreams, he was sure of her, sure of her courage and her devotion to him. Guts—more than most men. There was the time she knocked the acid bottle out of the hands of that crazy old biddy he had caught out in the Midwell case. If she hadn’t been quick and courageous then, he would probably be wearing smoked glasses now, with a dog to lead him around.

He displaced the covers a little and looked at the scar on her arm she had picked up that day. None of the acid had touched him, but some had touched her—it still showed, it always would show. But she didn’t seem to care.

"Cynthia! Oh, Cyn, my darling!"

There came a time when even he could not remain in one position any longer. Painfully—the cold he had caught in his muscles after the accident last night made his cramped legs ache like fury—he got himself up and prepared to cope with necessities. The thought of food was repugnant but he knew that he had to feed himself if he were to be strong enough to accomplish the watching and waiting that was going to be necessary.

Rummaging through the kitchen shelves and the icebox turned up some oddments of food, breakfast things, a few canned goods, staples, some tired lettuce. He had no stomach for involved cooking; a can of soup seemed as good a bet as anything. He opened a can of Scotch broth, dumped it into a saucepan and added water. When it had simmered for a few minutes he took it off the fire and ate it from the pan, standing up. It tasted like stewed cardboard.

He went back to the bedroom and sat down again to resume the endless watching. But it soon developed that his feelings with respect to food were sounder than his logic; he bolted hastily for theathroom and was very sick for a few minutes. Then he washed his face, rinsed out his mouth, and came back to his chair, weak and pale, but feeling sound enough physically.