first came in--I had half a
mind to try something--an experiment?" I nodded. "Well, I've made up my
mind. We'll try it right now, before it's too late. If it succeeds, it
may yield us a few facts to go on. Your suppositions can come
afterward."

I felt, as he spoke, that something behind his words belied their
rudeness, that their rudeness was rather for Conlon's benefit than for
mine. He got up briskly and crossed to the bedside. There after a moment
he turned and motioned us both to join him.

As we did so, tiptoeing instinctively: "Yes--this is fortunate," he
said; "she's at it again. Look."

Susan still lay as I had first seen her, with shut eyes, her arms
extended outside the coverlet; but she was no longer entirely
motionless. Her left arm lay relaxed, the palm of her left hand upward.
I had often seen her hands lie inertly thus in her lap, the palms
upward, in those moments of silent withdrawal which I have more than
once described. But now her right hand was turned downward, the fingers
slightly contracted, as if they held a pen, and the hand was creeping
slowly on the coverlet from left to right; it would creep slowly in this
way for perhaps eight inches, then draw quickly back to its point of
starting and repeat the manoeuvre. It was uncanny, this patient
repetition--over and over--of a single restricted movement.

"My God," came from Conlon in a husky whisper, "is she dyin'--or what?"

"Far from it!" said Doctor Askew, his abrupt, crisp speech in almost
ludicrous contrast to Conlon's sudden awe. "Get me some paper from that
desk over there, Conlon. A pad, if possible."

He drew out a pencil from his pocket as he spoke. Conlon hesitated an
instant, then obeyed, tiptoeing ponderously, with creaking boots, over
to a daintily appointed writing-table, and returning with a block of
linen paper. Doctor Askew, meanwhile, holding the pencil between his
teeth, had lifted Susan's unresisting shoulders--too roughly, I
thought--from the bed.

"Stick that other pillow under her," he ordered me, sharply enough in
spite of the impeding pencil. "A little farther down--so!"

Susan now lay, no less limply than before, with her trunk, shoulders,
and head somewhat raised. Her right hand had ceased its slow, patient
movement.

"What's the idea?" Conlon was muttering. "What's the idea, doc?"

Whatever it was, it was evident that Conlon didn't like it.

"Got the pad?" demanded Doctor Askew. "Oh, good! Here!"

He almo