The moving finger

THE swish of starched skirts caused the man in the bed to roll slowly over, and for the first time patient and nurse regarded each other. The silence grew protracted.

"Well?" The man's tone was husky and the short interrogation was almost lost among the pillows. He made a second attempt, and this time his voice carried across the room. «What—what do you want?»

The nurse's eyes, pupils dilated, shifted from his white face to the glass in her outstretched hand, and the familiar sight of the medicine and her starched uniform drove away her temporary loss of composure.

"Here is your medicine," she announced, and at the sound of her low, traînante voice the patient clutched the bedclothes spasmodically. He made no effort to take the glass.

"Put it on the table," he directed and, reading correctly the look that crept into her eyes, his voice rose again harshly. «Put it down, I say—»

A rap at the closed hall door partly drowned his words, and without replying Nurse Deane placed the glass on the table by the bed, and a second later was looking out into the hall. She drew back at sight of a tall man standing somewhat away from the entrance to the room, then thinking better of her hesitancy she stepped into the hall and drew the door shut behind her.