Ste. Marie slipped his arms under the man's body and began to raise him
from the floor.

"You needn't help, after all," he said. "He's not heavy."

And, indeed, under his skilfully shaped and padded clothes the man was a
mere waif of a man--as unbelievably slight as if he were the victim of a
wasting disease. Ste. Marie held the body in his arms as if it had been
a child, and carried it across and laid it on the bed; but it was many
months before he forgot the horror of that awful thing shaking and
twitching in his hold, the head thumping hideously upon his shoulder,
the arms and legs beating against him. It was the most difficult task he
had ever had to perform. He laid Captain Stewart upon the bed and
straightened the helpless limbs as best he could.

"I suppose," he said, rising again--"I suppose when the man comes out of
this he'll be frightfully exhausted and drop off to sleep, won't he?
We'll have to--"

He halted abruptly there, and for a single swift instant he felt the
black and rushing sensation of one who is going to faint away. The wall
behind the ornate Empire bed was covered with photographs, some in
frames, others left, as they had been received, upon the large squares
of weird cardboard which are termed "art mounts."

"Come here a moment, quickly!" said Ste. Marie, in a sharp voice.

Mlle. Nilssen's sobs had died down to a silent, spasmodic catching of
the breath, but she was still much unnerved, and she approached the bed
with obvious unwillingness, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.