Potbury looked startled. “What do you mean? This place isn’t hard to find.”
“But I didn’t give you the address.”
“Eh? Nonsense.”
“But I didn’t. I remembered the oversight just a few minutes later and called your office back, but you had already left.”
“I didn’t say you gave it to me today,” Potbury said testily; “you gave it to me yesterday.”
Randall thought it over. He had offered Potbury his credentials the day before, but they contained only his business address. True, his home telephone was listed, but it was listed simply as a night business number, without address, both in his credentials and in the phone book. Perhaps Cynthia —
But he could not ask Cynthia and the thought of her drove minor considerations out of his mind. “Are you sure there is nothing else I should do, doctor?” he asked anxiously.
“Nothing. Stay here and watch her.”
“I will. But I surely wish I were twins for a while,” he added emphatically.
“Why?” Potbury inquired, as he gathered up his gloves and turned toward the door.
“That guy Hoag. I’ve got a score to settle with him. Never mind — I’ll put somebody else on his tail until I have a chance to settle his hash myself.”
Potbury had wheeled around and was looking at him ominously. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Your place is here.”
“Sure, sure — but I want to keep him on ice. One of these days I’m going to take him apart to see what makes him tick!”
“Young man,” Potbury said slowly, “I want you to promise me that you will have nothing to do in any way with…with this man you mentioned.”
Randall glanced toward the bed. “In view of what has happened,” he said savagely, “do you think I’m going to let him get away scot-free?”
“In the name of — Look. I’m older than you are and I’ve learned to expect silliness and stupidity. Still — how much does it take to teach you that some things are too dangerous to monkey with?” He gestured toward Cynthia. “How can you expect me to be responsible for her recovery if you insist on doing things that might bring on a catastrophe?”
“But — listen, Dr. Potbury, I told you that I intended to follow your instructions about her. But I’m not going to just forget what he has done. If she dies…if she dies, so help me, I’ll take him apart with a rusty ax!”
Potbury did not answer at once. When he did all he said was, “And if she doesn’t die?”
“If she doesn’t die, my first business is here, taking care of her. But don’t expect me to promise to forget Hoag. I won’t — and that’s final.”
Potbury jammed his hat on his head. “We’ll let it go at that — and trust she doesn’t die. But let me tell you, young man, you’re a fool.” He stomped out of the apartment.
The lift he had gotten from tangling wills with Potbury wore off in a few minutes after the doctor had gone, and a black depression settled down on him. There was nothing to do, nothing to distract his mind from the aching apprehension he felt over Cynthia. He did make the arrangements to raise the foot of the bed a little as suggested by Potbury, but it takes only a few minutes to perform such a trifling chore; when it was done he had nothing to occupy him.
In raising the foot of the bed he had been very cautious at first to avoid jarring the bed for fear of waking her; then he realized that waking her was just what he wanted most to do. Nevertheless he could not bring himself to be rough and noisy about it — she looked so helpless lying there.
He pulled a chair up close to the bed, where he could touch one of her hands and watch her closely for any change. By holding rigidly still he found that he could just perceive the rise and fall of her breast. It reassured him a little; he spent a long time watching for it — the slow, unnoticeable intake, the much quicker spilling of the breath.