Max came down from the roof alone, and I cornered him in the upper hall.
"I'm going crazy, Max," I said. "Nobody will tell me anything, and I
can't stand it. How was he hurt? Who hurt him?"
Max looked at me quite a long time.
"I'm darned if I understand you, Kit," he said gravely. "You said you
disliked Harbison."
"So I do--I did," I supplemented. "But whether I like him or not has
nothing to do with it. He has been injured--perhaps murdered"--I choked
a little. "Which--which of you did it?"
Max took my hand and held it, looking down at me.
"I wish you could have cared for me like that," he said gently. "Dear
little girl, we don't know who hurt him. I didn't, if that's what you
mean. Perhaps a flower pot--"
I began to cry then, and he drew me to him and let me cry on his arm. He
stood very quietly, patting my head in a brotherly way and behaving very
well, save that once he said: "Don't cry too long, Kit; I can stand only a certain amount."
And just then the nurse opened the door to the studio, and with Max's
arm still around me, I raised my head and looked in.
Mr. Harbison was conscious. His eyes were open, and he was staring at us
both as we stood framed by the doorway.
He lay back at once and closed his eyes, and the nurse shut the door.
There was no use, even if I had been allowed in, in trying to explain
to him. To attempt such a thing would have been to presume that he was
interested in an explanation. I thought bitterly to myself as I brought
the nurse cracked ice and struggled to make beef tea in the kitchen,
that lives had been wrecked on less.
Dal was allowed ten minutes in the sick room during the afternoon, and
he came out looking puzzled and excited. He refused to tell us what he
had learned, however, and the rest of the afternoon he and Jim spent in
the cellar.
The day dragged on. Downstairs people ate and read and wrote letters,
and outside newspaper men talked together and gazed over at the house
and photographed the doctors coming in and the doctors going out. As for
me, in the intervals of bringing things, I sat in Bella's chair in the
upper hall, and listened to the crackle of the nurse's starched skirts.
At midnight that night the doctors made a thorough examination. When
they came out they were smiling.
"He is doing very well," the younger one said--he was hairy and dark,
but he was beautiful to me. "He is entirely conscious now, and in about
an hour you can send the nurse off for a little sleep. Don't let him
talk."