X to come out of her amnesia anytime now. She’s definitely better. See any signs, Gaylord?”
“None at all. I was just looking at her and she appears about as she has for days. To be sure she isn’t quite so waxen and she doesn’t seem so scared, but otherwise she is just the same.”
Dent reached for a sandwich.
“Yours is downstairs, doctor,” Marcella said shortly. “I can’t see why you want to eat other people’s lunches.”
“Can’t you, Harris? Well, I’ll tell you. Ever hear of Omar Khayyam? ‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou beside me in the wilderness,’ etc., etc. Now, if you could find it in your hard and unfriendly heart to stay and share my meal, lady, it might prove more palatable.”
“The voice is the voice of Dr. Dent, the intern; but the tone and theme are those of Cyrus Dent, eligible bachelor and idol of the country-club crowd,” Marcella said with her usual bluntness.
“You do me wrong, lady.” Ellen saw that he flushed with annoyance . “In this profession you know it behooves one to be on friendly terms with the townspeople: It’s good policy and besides, I need the exercise.”
“Umph!” snorted Marcella, and wondered if Ellen had heard that he had been offered a ritzy job in Boston, catering to the neurotic elite.
“Umph me no umphs, Marcella Harris,” the young man went on, his natural nonchalance restored. “There isn’t a girl in that whole crowd to compare with one we have here in Anthony Ware.” He glanced quickly at Ellen and grinned at her quick hot blush. She glared wildly at him and he went on smoothly, an impish quirk on his handsome mouth: “Don’t you people think Lady X is about the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen? I’m telling you—that girl is class.”
Later when she thought of it, Ellen could not describe her reactions to that statement. She was suddenly sick. She felt the blood drain from her face, and pinched herself to restore her senses. She could not lift her shamed and angry eyes, but swallowed the food in her mouth with the help of coffee which fortunately had cooled considerably. She was sure she knew why people felt a sudden urge to commit murder.
The smooth, mocking voice went on, “We’re hoping for a break soon. Do any of you girls want to make a bet with me?”
“What odds?” Marcella asked, not that she wanted to know particularly, but he was eating far too many sandwiches—the pig—and she thought to divert his attention. If only he wasn’t so darn good-looking and so sort of appealing! It made her mad.
“A nickel to a dime that Lady X is somebody important. Oh-oh—time for gambling interns to scram. Bye, Nightingales.” The s was pronounced and he departed as the elevator discharged its passenger—the night watchman.
Marcella giggled maliciously. “That’s one time the handsome Dent got fooled.” But Ellen had fled to the safety of the ward. There she stayed—smoothing a rumpled coverlet, listening to the irregular breathing of Angela Dubail murmuring a little prayer in her heart as she looked down at the thin face, the quiet, folded hands entwined with her rosary; adjusting a window.
Her eyes searched the shadows near the garage. It must have been the watchman she told herself again, for now there was no one lurking here.
Just what she feared she couldn’t have told. That the wretches who had abused Lady X and left her for dead would never be satisfied to let well enough alone and take their chances at remaining undiscovered, she somehow felt sure. Let Cy Dent laugh at women’s intuition if he wanted to, she knew that MacGowan respected hers. Hadn’t he left Lady X right here in L?
A car drove into the courtyard below, its headlights searching out every nook and cranny. No, there was no one down there now. It must have been the watchman. The car lights went out. Ellen turned and went back to her table in the alcove. Marcella had gone and Janet still nibbled at a sandwich. The service elevator
“None at all. I was just looking at her and she appears about as she has for days. To be sure she isn’t quite so waxen and she doesn’t seem so scared, but otherwise she is just the same.”
Dent reached for a sandwich.
“Yours is downstairs, doctor,” Marcella said shortly. “I can’t see why you want to eat other people’s lunches.”
“Can’t you, Harris? Well, I’ll tell you. Ever hear of Omar Khayyam? ‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou beside me in the wilderness,’ etc., etc. Now, if you could find it in your hard and unfriendly heart to stay and share my meal, lady, it might prove more palatable.”
“The voice is the voice of Dr. Dent, the intern; but the tone and theme are those of Cyrus Dent, eligible bachelor and idol of the country-club crowd,” Marcella said with her usual bluntness.
“You do me wrong, lady.” Ellen saw that he flushed with annoyance . “In this profession you know it behooves one to be on friendly terms with the townspeople: It’s good policy and besides, I need the exercise.”
“Umph!” snorted Marcella, and wondered if Ellen had heard that he had been offered a ritzy job in Boston, catering to the neurotic elite.
“Umph me no umphs, Marcella Harris,” the young man went on, his natural nonchalance restored. “There isn’t a girl in that whole crowd to compare with one we have here in Anthony Ware.” He glanced quickly at Ellen and grinned at her quick hot blush. She glared wildly at him and he went on smoothly, an impish quirk on his handsome mouth: “Don’t you people think Lady X is about the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen? I’m telling you—that girl is class.”
Later when she thought of it, Ellen could not describe her reactions to that statement. She was suddenly sick. She felt the blood drain from her face, and pinched herself to restore her senses. She could not lift her shamed and angry eyes, but swallowed the food in her mouth with the help of coffee which fortunately had cooled considerably. She was sure she knew why people felt a sudden urge to commit murder.
The smooth, mocking voice went on, “We’re hoping for a break soon. Do any of you girls want to make a bet with me?”
“What odds?” Marcella asked, not that she wanted to know particularly, but he was eating far too many sandwiches—the pig—and she thought to divert his attention. If only he wasn’t so darn good-looking and so sort of appealing! It made her mad.
“A nickel to a dime that Lady X is somebody important. Oh-oh—time for gambling interns to scram. Bye, Nightingales.” The s was pronounced and he departed as the elevator discharged its passenger—the night watchman.
Marcella giggled maliciously. “That’s one time the handsome Dent got fooled.” But Ellen had fled to the safety of the ward. There she stayed—smoothing a rumpled coverlet, listening to the irregular breathing of Angela Dubail murmuring a little prayer in her heart as she looked down at the thin face, the quiet, folded hands entwined with her rosary; adjusting a window.
Her eyes searched the shadows near the garage. It must have been the watchman she told herself again, for now there was no one lurking here.
Just what she feared she couldn’t have told. That the wretches who had abused Lady X and left her for dead would never be satisfied to let well enough alone and take their chances at remaining undiscovered, she somehow felt sure. Let Cy Dent laugh at women’s intuition if he wanted to, she knew that MacGowan respected hers. Hadn’t he left Lady X right here in L?
A car drove into the courtyard below, its headlights searching out every nook and cranny. No, there was no one down there now. It must have been the watchman. The car lights went out. Ellen turned and went back to her table in the alcove. Marcella had gone and Janet still nibbled at a sandwich. The service elevator
Similar Books
