It took her a moment to collect her thoughts.

"Oh, the needle! Did I have it?"

"Certainly. I handed it to you as I usually do."

She rubbed her forehead in the effort to recall.

"Did you?" she murmured in perplexity. "I don't remember."

"But I remember. I want to replace it. What have you done with it?"

Her memory was a complete void; the business of Roger's thumb had routed everything else.

"Are you quite sure——" she faltered.

"Sure!" he repeated sharply, and with a gesture of annoyance. "I tell you you had it in your hand when you bolted out of the room. There is no question about it."

"Then I must have laid it down somewhere. I'll look for it in just a moment."

She was washing the basin at the bath.

"You'll look now."

She glanced quickly at him, amazed at his peremptory manner. Never before had any doctor spoken to her in that fashion. Besides, how could he be angry over such a trifle?

"Certainly, doctor."

She spoke calmly, hiding her wounded dignity, and without more ado hastened back to the boudoir, now empty. Where could she have put the wretched thing? It was true she had had it in her hand, she recollected that much now, but nothing more. She made a thorough search, disagreeably aware that the doctor kept coming to the doorway and watching her.

"There's no sign of it here, doctor. I'll look in my bedroom. I went there to get my first-aid."

"Do so."

She would rather not have done so when addressed in that manner. The blood rushed to her cheeks, but she stifled her resentment and continued to search in every likely and unlikely place. It couldn't be lost, that was impossible. Yet in ten minutes she returned empty-handed.

"I'm so sorry, doctor. I've looked everywhere. It's simply disappeared."

"Disappeared!"

There was no describing the sudden look of rage with which he turned on her. His face grew a mottled red, his clenched fist made an abortive gesture as though he would have liked to strike her.

"Disappeared!" he reiterated. "Have you the face to stand there and confess to such a piece of flagrant carelessness?"

She bit her lip.

"I suppose it was careless of me, doctor, but I didn't think——"

"That's the whole trouble; you never think—except about frivolity, men, anything but your work! There is no excuse for your conduct—none."

The attack was so unwarranted that, although she felt her face burn with indignation, she was able to regard him with sudden calm detachment, noting curiously his twitching mouth, his laboured breathing. He seemed in a few minutes to have become quite a different person. She had never seen him violently angry before.

"I was only going to say that although I was no doubt to blame, I certainly had no idea that you could possibly consider the matter so important."

He seemed suddenly to rein himself in for a second or two, during which he glared at her fixedly. Then he burst out again with scathing venom, the more concentrated because he kept his voice low.

"You didn't consider it important! That's what you mean to say. Let me tell you that any nurse worth her salt does not rush off and leave her patient as you did just now in that cavalier fashion. It was your duty to ask my permission, to find out if I was ready for you to go. Your behaviour was undisciplined, un——"

"Oh, I see. Then it was my running off to help Mr. Clifford that was wrong, not losing the needle?"

She tried to keep sarcasm from her voice, realising that it was the first time in her career she had ever given anything approaching a "back answer," yet unable to resist making some retort. She saw an odd gleam come into the doctor's deepset eyes, an expression she did not understand. For the moment the cold scientist was non-existent.

"Find that needle," he commanded, his whole huge frame tense with suppressed fury. "It is the principle that matters. I have no use for careless people."

Then, as though maddened by the passivity of her regard, he lashed out at her once more, blindly cutting her with abuse that stung, even though it was entirely undeserved. A certain crude coarseness crept into his phrases, perhaps something long repressed had found vent. The cold, inert mass of him had turned into a volcano of vituperation.

Shaken and outraged, she felt that a few words more, and she would be compelled to say, "Very well, if that's what you think of me I'd better go at once and let you get another nurse." The sentence trembled on her lips, but she did not speak it. In her heart she knew why. The truth was she did not want to go. She was interested in her case; these people had been kind to her, and then—perhaps it was the real reason—there was Roger….

When at last the man paused for breath, she bowed her head slightly.

"I can only say again that I am sorry," she replied, and left the room.

Trembling with anger, she went straight to her room and stood by the window, clutching the curtain and staring out unseeingly. Ten minutes passed before she was able to subdue her pounding heart, which seemed with every beat to choke her. For a time she was quite incapable of seeing anything clearly, so bewildered was she and shaken by indignation.

At last she tried to arraign her chaotic thoughts and reason the affair out. Was the mislaying of a hypodermic needle such a heinous offence? Impossible! There was no sense in it. Was it then that the doctor had a sort of fixation on the subject of precision, that she had unknowingly offended him in a vulnerable spot? That explanation was more likely, yet not quite satisfying. Something else occurred to her. Perhaps he had been made angry by another person, and had tented his rage on her. That sort of thing was easy to understand. Or else—and now she felt she had hit upon something at last!—he might have some reason of his own for wishing to be rid of her, and had taken this method of driving her to give notice. She could not conceive in what way she could have caused him so to dislike her, but he was a strange man, there was no knowing what his prejudices were like. Perhaps, indeed, he was acting for Lady Clifford, who might easily have reason to wish her away…. Yes, that was distinctly possible.

The very thought aroused all her fighting instinct. She squared her jaw firmly, determined to stand her ground.

"No," she said positively to herself, "I'm not going to leave this case unless they put me out. Sir Charles is my patient as much as his, and I'm jolly well going to look after him."

She knew how hard it was going to be to face Sartorius after the recent scene—she would even find it unpleasant to sit opposite him at table. Still, there was no help for it; she must simply cultivate a thick skin and not let anyone suspect there was anything amiss. At any rate, her conscience was clear. So thinking, she set her cap straight before the mirror, and, with eyes brighter than usual and head held high, went back to her duties.

To her relief her late assailant made brief work of his lunch that day and left the dining-room before the end of the meal.

"So unlike him," was Miss Clifford's mild comment. "He usually has such a good appetite. But no one seems hungry to-day. Roger, my dear, you are not eating at all. Is your head still bad?"

Her nephew eyed his crÊpes Suzettes with disfavour.

"Yes, it's rather tiresome. Can't think what causes it. I've had it since last night."

Esther shot him a speculative glance. Up till now she had been too deeply absorbed in her own thoughts to observe how heavy-eyed he was, listless and unlike his usual self. He caught her eyes and laughed in protest.

"Don't you begin on me. I refuse to be doctored. The last attempt to cure my headache resulted in this——" and he held up his injured hand.

"Then I'd better not suggest an aspirin for fear you'd go and break your leg?"

"No, don't. It's a gorgeous day, though, simply a crime to stay indoors. Will you chance left-handed driving and come for a spin?"

"I will not," she refused decidedly. "The man who drives me will want two hands."

"Ah—formidable, as these French say. Then you don't trust me?"

"No, I don't. That's a very nasty cut you've got; it will be every bit of ten days before you can take a car out. You must give the thing a chance to heal properly."

She finished her lunch in a more agreeable frame of mind than she had begun it, then, excusing herself, went up to settle her patient for his afternoon nap. Something restless and fretful in Sir Charles's manner caught her attention for a moment, but when she had sat with him a little he quieted down so that she was sure when she left him he was about to doze off. She was glad not to encounter the doctor, although the flame of her anger had died down, leaving only the cold ashes of resentment.

She could not explain why it was that after a short brisk walk through the streets of La Californie she should suddenly feel impelled to return to the house. It seemed as though she were being literally drawn back to her patient. She had never had such a thing happen before. She raced home and ran upstairs, slipping quietly into the darkened bedroom. She hoped to find the old man asleep, but his feeble voice greeted her at once.

"Is that you, nurse?"

"Yes, Sir Charles. Haven't you had your nap?"

"No—no. I feel uncomfortable. Queer…"

She drew aside the curtains and went to the bed.

"Do you?" she asked soothingly. "How's that, I wonder? Let's have a look at you."

A dingy crimson flush underlay his dried skin, his head turned restlessly from side to side. At once she suspected that his temperature was up again.

"I'm devilish hot; burning up … fever … I thought I'd finished with it."

"So you have; you're getting on famously."

She gave no sign of the sudden fear that darted through her. Why should his temperature go up like that? She did not like the look in his eyes.

"Well, let's see what you've been up to," she cajoled him gently and, having made the bed more comfortable, reached for the thermometer.

As she suspected, the mercury rose high into the danger zone. When she examined the little tube, her heart stood still in sickening alarm. What had brought about this change for the worse in such a short space of time? She racked her brain, but could not account for it. She glanced searchingly at the old man, who had abandoned interest in his condition, and lay absolutely still, save for the faint movements of his bony fingers upon the coverlet.

She was too disturbed even to shrink from the duty of informing Sartorius; there was no room in her mind now for personal animus. She found the doctor in his own room, a medical journal on his knee and an untidy ash-tray beside him, together with a cup of strong Indian tea.

He received her information stolidly, only his small eyes quickened to attention as, without comment, he rose and followed her.

The ill man submitted almost without noticing to the doctor's examination. There was not the slightest doubt that he had taken a serious turn for the worse. Presently, when the doctor had completed his investigation, he summoned Esther to the other end of the room with a brusque movement of the head.

"Have you any idea of what may have caused this?" asked in a low voice.

"Not the slightest, doctor: I simply can't imagine!"

"Then I can."

She looked up at him, puzzled. What did he mean?

"You know what I said to you this morning," he continued deliberately, but looking away from her, "on the subject of your unprofessional behaviour. Perhaps this will be a proof to you of how serious the matter was."

She could not believe she had heard aright.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that in shouting out the word 'accident' as you did and then dashing out of the room, you may easily have caused Sir Charles a shock which in his condition was sufficient to bring on this relapse. From your manner he may have thought some really grave catastrophe had overtaken his son. It is quite possible that you are directly responsible for his state now."

She stared at him, speechless. How could he wilfully distort facts in this barefaced way? It seemed a revelation of some incredible pettiness of character hitherto unsuspected in him. When she found her voice she spoke evenly, with perfect self-control.

"I think, doctor, you will have a hard job of it trying to pin this on me," she replied, and left him.

She knew that his eyes followed her, and that during the rest of the afternoon he glanced at her often, as if he did not know how to construe her momentary defiance, but she was indifferent to what he thought. She knew that at this late date he would not risk a change of nurses, and that was enough for her. Her only concern was for her patient.

Before evening everyone was aware that Sir Charles, whom they had believed to be out of danger, had suffered a severe relapse. Depression lay like a pall on the household. Lady Clifford fidgeted about from one room to another aimlessly. Roger smoked endless cigarettes.

"Do you think the doctor could have foreseen this?" Miss Clifford inquired of Esther about night-fall. "You remember how he warned us last night against being too hopeful."

"He couldn't possibly have guessed it! No one could. The whole thing has come out of the blue. I can't think how to account for it. If he had been given anything to eat, solid food, or—but no, that is simply out of the question."

The more Esther thought of it the more utterly she was mystified. The affair was inexplicable. She scorned to consider for a moment the doctor's absurd attempt to accuse her, having seen the old man weather a storm infinitely worse.

When, tired and dispirited, she went to her room that night, she fancied, on opening the door, that a faint odour of tobacco greeted her—the doctor's strong Algerian tobacco.

"That wretched man is getting on my nerves," she murmured under her breath. "I couldn't possibly smell cigarette smoke here, the door has been closed all day."

A moment later she stood still in front of the dressing-table, her eyes running over its contents. Was everything as she had left it? The maid never touched anything after she did the room in the morning, yet somehow the various boxes and bottles, trays, and so on, had an altered appearance. Her quick eye roamed around. On the table was her first-aid case, where she had put it down that morning. She opened it and looked inside. She could not absolutely swear things were different and yet… She turned and surveyed the whole room, then one by one pulled open the drawers in the commode. Here and there she felt sure some object had been touched and disarranged. If she had not been an orderly person she might not have noticed. Last she opened her shopping bag. She found the metal cover of her lip-stick off, and a streak of red on the lining of the bag. Then she felt certain: there was nothing missing, yet she was convinced that someone had been ransacking her belongings pretty thoroughly. One of the maids, perhaps, out of idle curiosity. It didn't interest her much.

"What on earth does it matter?" She sighed indifferently, and then she remembered the tobacco smoke. Could it possibly have been…

She remained motionless for a full minute, her brow knitted in puzzled thought. Then, with a shake of the head, she slowly undressed.