"Why didn't you tell me? The soup, quick, Sylvia. I only wish I had some brandy. Well, at least this is hot, and will warm you up. I'll feed you." "No, no. I needn't trouble you to do that. I'm sure I can manage with my left hand." "Don't be silly. You'll spill it all over yourself. Goodness knows, you're wet enough as it is. Hand me the cup and spoon, Sylvia." "But I feel like a baby," fretted the stranger. "No matter. We must get something hot inside you right away. Don't fuss about how it's done," said the practical-minded Marcia. "There! You look better already! Later you shall have a real, honest-to-goodness meal. Run and call Doctor Stetson, Sylvia, and open the bed in the room opposite[59] mine. You might light the heater there, too." [59] As the girl sped away, Marcia turned toward her visitor. "Suppose we try to make the rocking-chair now. Shall we? We won't aspire to going upstairs until the doctor comes. You're not quite good for that yet. But at least you needn't sit on the floor. What worries me is your wet clothing. I'm afraid you'll take your death of cold. Let me peel off your shoes and socks. I can do that. And I believe I could get you out of your water-soaked sweater if I were to cut the sleeve. May I try? We needn't mind wrecking it, for I have another I can give you." The man did not answer. Instead, he sat tense and unsmiling, his penetrating brown eyes fixed on Marcia's face. Apparently the scrutiny crystalized in him some swift resolution, for after letting his glance travel about the room to convince himself that no one was within hearing, he leaned forward: "There is something else I'd rather you did for me first," he whispered, dropping his voice until it became almost inaudible. "I've a package here I wish you'd take charge of. It's inside my shirt. But for this infernal wrist, I could reach it." "I'll get it." "I'd rather you didn't talk about it," continued[60] he, hurriedly. "Just put it in a safe place. Will you, please?" [60] "Certainly."
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