Wolf in Man's Clothing by Mignon G. Eberhart

die?”
    That touched him. Something flinched and moved back of his bright eyes and one hand reached out toward the tall back of a chair near him. He said, “He’s not going to die,” and looked at me as if daring me to deny it, but it had frightened him all the same.
    â€œTwenty-four hours—thirty-six at the most will tell the tale. If things go well, there’s not much for us to do, only routine. If things go wrong, that’s different. I’d advise you to let her stay. Besides, he knows she’s here.” That told on him too; I saw it again in the flash away back in his eyes.
    â€œI thought he was unconscious. Chivery told me he would be unconscious for some time.”
    â€œHe roused a little, said a few words and then went back to sleep.”
    â€œSaid …” he began quickly, checked himself, and then resumed in a more deliberate way. “What did he say?”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “I’m a nurse. Dr. Chivery reminded me just now of my oath. Florence Nightingale, you know,” I said gently, and watched the purple come up into his cheeks and lips. Too much purple, in fact, in his lips. I couldn’t help making a brief professional note of it.
    â€œFlorence Nightingale blazes,” he said. “I’m paying you. I’m his father. What did he say?”
    He glared at me and I looked back at him and said, “Sorry. Is that all?” and made a motion toward the door.
    â€œWait a minute,” he said abruptly when I touched the doorknob. There was a short pause. Somewhere a clock was ticking in a measured way. It was almost dark by then and heavy red curtains had been drawn over the windows and one or two table lamps had been lighted. A cannel coal fire was burning in the hearth below the queerly contemptuous coat of arms; a lump cracked open and sputtered; blue sparks shot upward and Conrad Brent said, “Did he say anything about the accident?” and lifted his light eyes to watch me.
    Well, there he had me. In spite of the antagonism Conrad Brent had instantly roused in me, it was clearly my duty to tell someone in authority of the thing Craig had said. So I did.
    â€œHe said, well, as a matter of fact, he said this: ‘But that’s murder. Tell Claud.’ And then he said, ‘There’ll be murder done.’ ”
    I watched Conrad Brent, and he looked back at me without the slightest change of expression and that was rather odd because he ought to have been, to say the least, a little startled. He ought to have questioned me too; but he didn’t. After a long moment he only shrugged and said, “Delirium. Obviously.”
    I said nothing. And Conrad Brent added, “And he did recognize the—the woman?”
    I discovered a streak of sadism in my nature and said archly, “Oh, but definitely!”
    That affected him as the other hadn’t. He didn’t have a stroke, but it was touch and go for an instant. Then abruptly he crossed to the long, polished desk which stood in the window embrasure. He put his thumb hard upon a bell there and, when after another silence, Beevens opened the door, he sent for Drue.
    â€œTell Anna to stay with Mr. Craig,” he said. “And bring the other nurse here.”
    Beevens said, “Very good, sir,” and vanished.
    â€œI’ve got to go back to my patient. …”
    He interrupted. “You stay here.”
    â€œBut …”
    â€œAnna took care of him till you got here. She can do it for another five minutes.”
    He didn’t ask me to sit down, and he didn’t sit down himself. But after a moment of staring down at the desk, he turned and lifted a crystal decanter that stood, with small glasses, on a silver tray. There was brandy in the decanter; it had a rich, golden-brown gleam when the light fell on it and when he had offered me some and I shook my head, he poured some for himself, a generous amount which he drank