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Page 33
"It isn't--necessary." Chandler spoke with spaces between his words
caused by his short breath that some demon was driving too fast. "She
wouldn't--thank you to disturb her--on my--account."
Doctor James drew a chair to the bedside. Conversation must not be
squandered.
"A few minutes ago," he began, in the grave, candid tones of his other
profession, "you were trying to tell me something regarding some money.
I do not seek your confidence, but it is my duty to advise you that
anxiety and worry will work against your recovery. If you have any
communication to make about this--to relieve your mind about
this--twenty thousand dollars, I think was the amount you mentioned--you
would better do so."
Chandler could not turn his head, but he rolled his eyes in the
direction of the speaker.
"Did I--say where this--money is?"
"No," answered the physician. "I only inferred, from your scarcely
intelligible words, that you felt a solicitude concerning its safety. If
it is in this room--"
Doctor James paused. Did he only seem to perceive a flicker of
understanding, a gleam of suspicion upon the ironical features of his
patient? Had he seemed too eager? Had he said too much? Chandler's next
words restored his confidence.
"Where--should it be," he gasped, "but in--the safe--there?"
With his eyes he indicated a corner of the room, where now, for the
first time, the doctor perceived a small iron safe, half-concealed by
the trailing end of a window curtain.
Rising, he took the sick man's wrist. His pulse was beating in great
throbs, with ominous intervals between.
"Lift your arm," said Doctor James.
"You know--I can't move, Doctor."
The physician stepped swiftly to the hall door, opened it, and listened.
All was still. Without further circumvention he went to the safe, and
examined it. Of a primitive make and simple design, it afforded little
more security than protection against light-fingered servants. To his
skill it was a mere toy, a thing of straw and paste-board. The money
was as good as in his hands. With his clamps he could draw the knob,
punch the tumblers and open the door in two minutes. Perhaps, in another
way, he might open it in one.
Kneeling upon the floor, he laid his ear to the combination plate, and
slowly turned the knob. As he had surmised, it was locked at only a "day
com."--upon one number. His keen ear caught the faint warning click as
the tumbler was disturbed; he used the clue--the handle turned. He swung
the door wide open.
The interior of the safe was bare--not even a scrap of paper rested
within the hollow iron cube.
Doctor James rose to his feet and walked back to the bed.
A thick dew had formed upon the dying man's brow, but there was a
mocking, grim smile on his lips and in his eyes.
"I never--saw it before," he said, painfully, "medicine and--burglary
wedded! Do you--make the--combination pay--dear Doctor?"
Than that situation afforded, there was never a more rigorous test of
Doctor James's greatness. Trapped by the diabolic humor of his victim
into a position both ridiculous and unsafe, he maintained his dignity as
well as his presence of mind. Taking out his watch, he waited for the
man to die.
"You were--just a shade--too--anxious--about that money. But it never
was--in any danger--from you, dear Doctor. It's safe. Perfectly safe.
It's all--in the hands--of the bookmakers. Twenty--thousand--Amy's
money. I played it at the races--lost every--cent of it. I've been a
pretty bad boy, Burglar--excuse me--Doctor, but I've been a square
sport. I don't think--I ever met--such an--eighteen-carat rascal as you
are, Doctor--excuse me--Burglar, in all my rounds. Is it contrary--to
the ethics--of your--gang, Burglar, to give a victim--excuse
me--patient, a drink of water?"
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