"Mist Bentle obah dah," he said.
"Velly much sick. Missa Bentle lib dah, all same gleen house."
Stella ran across the way. The front door of the green cottage stood
wide. An electric drop light burned in the front room, though it was
broad day. When she crossed the threshold, she saw Linda sitting in a
chair, her arms folded on the table-edge, her head resting on her hands.
She was asleep, and she did not raise her head till Stella shook her
shoulder.
Linda Abbey had been a pretty girl, very fair, with apple-blossom skin
and a wonderfully expressive face. It gave Stella a shock to see her
now, to gage her suffering by the havoc it had wrought. Linda looked
old, haggard, drawn. There was a weary droop to her mouth, her eyes were
dull, lifeless, just as one might look who is utterly exhausted in mind
and body. Oddly enough, she spoke first of something irrelevant,
inconsequential.
"I fell asleep," she said heavily. "What time is it?"
Stella looked at her watch.
"Half-past four," she answered. "How is Charlie? What happened to him?"
"Monohan shot him."
Stella caught her breath. She hadn't been prepared for that.
"Is he--is he--" she could not utter the words.
"He'll get better. Wait." Linda rose stiffly from her seat. A door in
one side of the room stood ajar. She opened it, and Stella, looking over
her shoulder, saw her brother's tousled head on a pillow. A nurse in
uniform sat beside his bed. Linda closed the door silently.
"Come into the kitchen where we won't make a noise," she whispered.
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