Dr. Lash came a little earlier than he was expected. The wound was not
really a fatal one, he said, but if Miss Harriet had not been so
attentive and skilful in keeping the cut closed, the man would have
bled to death.

Westerfelt dropped to sleep, and when he awoke it was night. A lamp,
the light of which was softened by a pink shade, stood on a
sewing-machine near the fireplace. At first he could not recall what
had happened nor where he was, and he felt very weak and sleepy. After
awhile, however, he became conscious of the fact that he was not alone.
A slight figure was moving silently about the room, now at the
fireplace, again at a table where some lint, bandages, and phials had
been left. The figure approached his bed cautiously. It was Harriet
Floyd. When she saw that he was awake, she started to move away, but
he detained her.

"I'm a lot of trouble for a new boarder," he said, smiling. "This is
my first day, and yet I've turned your house into a fortification and a
hospital."

"You are not a bit of trouble; the doctor said let you sleep as much as
possible."

"I don't need sleep; I've been hurt worse than this before."

She put her hand on his brow. "It'll make you feverish to talk, Mr.
Westerfelt; go to sleep."

"Did they jail Wambush?"