I recovered myself, and a man
timidly stepped inside, knocking as he did so. It was the Intermediate
Passenger. His face was pale; he looked ill.
Poor as his dress was, I saw that he had known the influences and
practised the graces of good society, though his manner was hesitating
and anxious now. I knew at a glance that he was suffering from both
physical pain and mental worry. Without a word, I took his wrist and felt
his pulse, and he said: "I thought I might venture to come--"
I motioned him not to speak. I counted the irregular pulse-beats, then
listened to the action of his heart, with my ear to his breast. There lay
his physical trouble. I poured out a dose of digitalis, and, handing it
to him, asked him to sit down. As he sat and drank the medicine, I
rapidly studied him. The chin was firm, and the eyes had a dogged,
persistent look that, when turned on you, saw not you, but something
beyond you. The head was thrown slightly forward, the eyes looking up at
an angle. This last action was habitual with him. It gave him a peculiar
earnestness. As I noted these peculiarities, my mind was also with his
case; I saw that his life was threatened.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32