“Of course you will do what you think best, as you know I never interfere with a doctor’s decisions.  But” and here her natural ascendancy of tone and manner returned in all its potency, “it would kill me to know that a stranger was approaching Helena’s bedside.  It would kill her.  She’s too sensitive to survive such a shock.”

Violet recalled the words worked with so much care by this young girl on a minute piece of linen, I do not want to die, and watched the doctor’s face for some sign of resolution.  But embarrassment was all she saw there, and all she heard him say was the conventional reply: 

“I am doing all I can for her.  We will wait another day and note the effect of my latest prescription.”

Another day!

The deathly calm which overspread Mrs. Postlethwaite’s features as this word left the physician’s lips warned Violet not to let another day go by without some action.  But she made no remark, and, indeed, betrayed but little interest in anything beyond her own patient’s condition.  That seemed to occupy her wholly.  With consummate art she gave the appearance of being under Mrs. Postlethwaite’s complete thrall, and watched with fascinated eyes every movement of the one unstricken finger which could do so much.

This little detective of ours could be an excellent actor when she chose.

III

To make the old man speak!  To force this conscience-stricken but rebellious soul to reveal what the clock forbade!  How could it be done?

This continued to be Violet’s great problem.  She pondered it so deeply during all the remainder of the day that a little pucker settled on her brow, which someone (I will not mention who) would have been pained to see.  Mrs. Postlethwaite, if she noticed it at all, probably ascribed it to her anxieties as nurse, for never had Violet been more assiduous in her attentions.  But Mrs. Postlethwaite was no longer the woman she had been, and possibly never noted it at all.

At five o’clock Violet suddenly left the room.  Slipping down into the lower hall, she went the round of the clocks herself, listening to every one.  There was no perceptible difference in their tick.  Satisfied of this and that it was simply the old man’s imagination which had supplied them each with separate speech, she paused before the huge one at the foot of the stairs, —­the one whose dictate he had promised himself to follow,—­and with an eye upon its broad, staring dial, muttered wistfully: 

“Oh! for an idea!  For an idea!”

Did this cumbrous relic of old-time precision turn traitor at this ingenuous plea?  The dial continued to stare, the works to sing, but Violet’s face suddenly lost its perplexity.  With a wary look about her and a listening ear turned towards the stair top, she stretched out her hand and pulled open the door guarding the pendulum, and peered in at the works, smiling slyly to herself as she pushed it back into place and retreated upstairs to the sick room.