“It’s so silly!” she said fiercely.

But as moments passed the chill grew worse.  Her whole body seemed to be shaking, and as Roger was rubbing one of her arms she said something to him sharply, in a voice so thick he could not understand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I can’t feel anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my arm where you’re rubbing—­I can’t feel your hand.”

“You’d better have a doctor!”

“Telephone Allan—­Allan Baird.  He knows about this,” she muttered.  And Roger ran down to the telephone.  He was thoroughly frightened.

“All right, Mr. Gale,” came Baird’s gruff bass, steady and slow, “I think I know what the trouble is—­and I wouldn’t worry if I were you.  I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”  And it was hardly more than that when he came into Deborah’s room.  A moment he looked down at her.

“Again?” he said.  She glanced up at him and nodded, and smiled quickly through set teeth.  Baird carefully examined her and then turned to Roger:  “Now I guess you’d better go out.  You stay,” he added to Sarah, the maid.  “I may need you here awhile.”

About an hour later he came down to Roger’s study.

“She’s safe enough now, I guess,” he said.  “I’ve telephoned for a nurse for her, and she’ll have to stay in bed a few days.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Acute indigestion.”

“You don’t say!” exclaimed Roger brightly, with a rush of deep relief.  Baird gave him a dry quizzical smile.

“People have died of that,” he remarked, “in less than an hour.  We caught your daughter just in time.  May I stay a few moments?”

“Glad to have you!  Smoke a cigar!”

“Thanks—­I will.”  As Baird reached out for the proffered cigar, Roger suddenly noticed his hand.  Long and muscular, finely shaped, it seemed to speak of strength and skill and an immense vitality.  Baird settled himself in his chair.  “I want to talk about her,” he said.  “This little attack is only a symptom—­it comes from nerves.  She’s just about ready for a smash.  She’s had slighter attacks of this kind before.”

“I never knew it,” Roger said.

“No—­I don’t suppose you did.  Your daughter has a habit of keeping things like this to herself.  She came to me and I warned her, but she wanted to finish out her year.  Do you know anything about her school work?”

“Yes, I was with her there this week.”

“What did she show you?” Baird inquired.  Roger tried to tell him.  “No, that’s not what I’m after,” he said.  “That’s just one of her usual evenings.”  For a moment he smoked in silence.  “I’m hunting now for something else, for some unusual nervous shock which she appears to me to have had.”

“She has!” And Roger told him of her visit up to Sing Sing.  Baird’s lean muscular right hand slowly tightened on his chair.

“That’s a tough family of hers,” he remarked.