He shivered. He lay flat and motionless and stared upwards with wide-open eyes which saw nothing. All his body was trembling, but he was not conscious of his body. All his mind was a pulsating, flaming question—
The chill went from the air and the stirrings in the trees changed into lusty, full-throated singing and the greyness became transmuted into gold—and Otto Falken, with a sudden access of strength, fought with his rebellious mind and once more was in command of it.
He knew that he must find an answer—the answer. He had known that all the time, but now he knew more; he knew that without sleep and the healing of his body no answer which was right would come.
He had to fight for the mastery—but at last he slept.
When he waked the sun was high. Lena stood by his bed and looked down at him with a smile which seemed hampered by some inner anxiety. He stretched himself and answered the smile. He felt better than he had expected to feel. Lena said:
“We were sure awonderin’ when you’d be wakin’, Mizr Johnson. We was right worried, Miz Clare an’ me!”
He kept the smile on his face—and carefully did not look at the folded morning paper which lay upon the bedside table. He said:
“Did you think I was dead in my sleep?” and was relieved by the throaty chuckling which told him the laboured jest had at least seemed natural.
“Why, Mizr Johnson!” The chuckling went on through this; then was turned off at an unseen faucet. “No, Mizr Johnson, what’s been atroublin’ me an’ Miz Clare’s your frien’ that’s comin’. An’ before your breakfast an’ washin’ up too if we ain’t mighty careful!”
It was Altinger. He had telephoned from Fresno. He was breakfasting there and would like to detour on his way to San Francisco and see Mr. Jorgensen if that were convenient to Mr. Jorgensen’s hosts.
He gathered this much from Lena—and let himself be quickly washed and fed and waited for Clare and any more news he could gather from her. But she had not come before Lena left him, and, alone, he reached out an apprehensive hand for the newspaper and unfolded it and braced himself to meet what was there.
It covered the front page. The headlines screamed at him, huge and black.
He heard a quick light footstep outside his room and hurriedly folded the paper and was going to thrust it out of sight, but was too late.
She said: “I was going to tell Lena not to bring that to you.” She was looking at the crumpled paper. “It’s . . . unthinkable!” She was speaking faster than usual, and her voice was taut. Beneath its golden tan her face showed pallor, and there were faint, dark lines beneath her eyes. She said:
“I suppose Lena told you—your Mr. Altinger called from Fresno. He wanted to drive by and see you. You weren’t awake, so I said to come. I hope that was all right?”
He could see that she had not slept, and a compassion he had never known moved in him He said:
“Yes. Yes, of course. That was quite right. I . . . I am sorry that I give you this trouble. I . . .”
She smiled at him. “Don’t be meek,” she said. She busied herself about the room and spoke as she moved. “I thought you were going to have a relapse last night. But you look better.” Her voice was elaborately matter-of-fact. “Would you like us to give your friends lunch?”
His aching mind seized upon the plural word. “Friends? He has others with him?” His voice was sharper than he knew, and she turned momentarily to look at him.
“I gathered he had.” She spoke with her back to him again “He said ‘we’ all the time, so he can’t be alone.”
He was not. There were two others with him. In her father’s absence Clare received them. Above, Otto could hear voices and knew that Altinger was not alone, but could not tell who were his companions until they were shepherded upstairs by Lena and shown in to him. He had braced himself for the meeting, but was taken shockingly aback by the utterly unexpected presence of Carolyn Van Teller. He hardly noticed that the third of his visitors was the ancient, improbable Gunnar Bjornstrom, to whom, in the room of the Mark Hopkins, he had made his first report on Altinger.
Altinger was all spasmodic, breezy kindness, Bjornstrom was placidly benign—and the woman was gracious and sympathetic and more strikingly beautiful than he had remembered her. She was also—and it increased somehow his fear and distress and confusion—faintly and personally proprietorial.