As I said before, I think a lot of my doctor—­when I am ill.  He is a young man, with an air of breezy self-confidence and good humor.  He looked directly past the bottle, which is a very valuable accomplishment, and shook hands with McKnight until I could put the cigarettes under the bedclothes.  He had interdicted tobacco.  Then he sat down beside the bed and felt around the bandages with hands as gentle as a baby’s.

“Pretty good shape,” he said.  “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, occasionally,” I replied.  “I would like to sit up, doctor.”

“Nonsense.  Take a rest while you have an excuse for it.  I wish to thunder I could stay in bed for a day or so.  I was up all night.”

“Have a drink,” McKnight said, pushing over the bottle.

“Twins!” The doctor grinned.

“Have two drinks.”

But the medical man refused.

“I wouldn’t even wear a champagne-colored necktie during business hours,” he explained.  “By the way, I had another case from your accident, Mr. Blakeley, late yesterday afternoon.  Under the tongue, please.”  He stuck a thermometer in my mouth.

I had a sudden terrible vision of the amateur detective coming to light, note-book, cheerful impertinence and incriminating data.  “A small man?” I demanded, “gray hair—­”

“Keep your mouth closed,” the doctor said peremptorily.  “No.  A woman, with a fractured skull.  Beautiful case.  Van Kirk was up to his eyes and sent for me.  Hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils—­all the trimmings.  Worked for two hours.”

“Did she recover?” McKnight put in.  He was examining the doctor with a new awe.

“She lifted her right arm before I left,” the doctor finished cheerily, “so the operation was a success, even if she should die.”

“Good Heavens,” McKnight broke in, “and I thought you were just an ordinary mortal, like the rest of us!  Let me touch you for luck.  Was she pretty?”

“Yes, and young.  Had a wealth of bronze-colored hair.  Upon my soul, I hated to cut it.”

McKnight and I exchanged glances.

“Do you know her name, doctor?” I asked.

“No.  The nurses said her clothes came from a Pittsburg tailor.”

“She is not conscious, I suppose?”

“No; she may be, to-morrow—­or in a week.”

He looked at the thermometer, murmured something about liquid diet, avoiding my eye—­Mrs. Klopton was broiling a chop at the time—­and took his departure, humming cheerfully as he went down-stairs.  McKnight looked after him wistfully.

“Jove, I wish I had his constitution,” he exclaimed.  “Neither nerves nor heart!  What a chauffeur he would make!”

But I was serious.

“I have an idea,” I said grimly, “that this small matter of the murder is going to come up again, and that your uncle will be in the deuce of a fix if it does.  If that woman is going to die, somebody ought to be around to take her deposition.  She knows a lot, if she didn’t do it herself.  I wish you would go down to the telephone and get the hospital.  Find out her name, and if she is conscious.”