Down-stairs McKnight was still at the telephone, and amusing himself with Mrs. Klopton in the interval of waiting.

“Why did he come home in a gray suit, when he went away in a blue?” he repeated.  “Well, wrecks are queer things, Mrs. Klopton.  The suit may have turned gray with fright.  Or perhaps wrecks do as queer stunts as lightning.  Friend of mine once was struck by lightning; he and the caddy had taken refuge under a tree.  After the flash, when they recovered consciousness, there was my friend in the caddy’s clothes, and the caddy in his.  And as my friend was a large man and the caddy a very small boy—­”

McKnight’s story was interrupted by the indignant slam of the dining-room door.  He was obliged to wait some time, and even his eternal cheerfulness was ebbing when he finally got the hospital.

“Is Doctor Van Kirk there?” he asked.  “Not there?  Well, can you tell me how the patient is whom Doctor Williams, from Washington, operated on last night?  Well, I’m glad of that.  Is she conscious?  Do you happen to know her name?  Yes, I’ll hold the line.”  There was a long pause, then McKnight’s voice: 

“Hello—­yes.  Thank you very much.  Good-by.”

He came up-stairs, two steps at a time.

“Look here,” he said, bursting into the room, “there may be something in your theory, after all.  The woman’s name—­it may be a coincidence, but it’s curious—­her name is Sullivan.”

“What did I tell you?” I said, sitting up suddenly in bed.  “She’s probably a sister of that scoundrel in lower seven, and she was afraid of what he might do.”

“Well, I’ll go there some day soon.  She’s not conscious yet.  In the meantime, the only thing I can do is to keep an eye, through a detective, on the people who try to approach Bronson.  We’ll have the case continued, anyhow, in the hope that the stolen notes will sooner or later turn up.”

“Confound this arm,” I said, paying for my energy with some excruciating throbs.  “There’s so much to be looked after, and here I am, bandaged, splinted, and generally useless.  It’s a beastly shame.”

“Don’t forget that I am here,” said McKnight pompously.  “And another thing, when you feel this way just remember there are two less desirable places where you might be.  One is jail, and the other is—­” He strummed on an imaginary harp, with devotional eyes.

But McKnight’s light-heartedness jarred on me that morning.  I lay and frowned under my helplessness.  When by chance I touched the little gold bag, it seemed to scorch my fingers.  Richey, finding me unresponsive, left to keep his luncheon engagement with Alison West.  As he clattered down the stairs, I turned my back to the morning sunshine and abandoned myself to misery.  By what strain on her frayed nerves was Alison West keeping up, I wondered?  Under the circumstances, would I dare to return the bag?  Knowing that I had it, would she hate me for my knowledge?  Or had I exaggerated the importance of the necklace, and in that case had she forgotten me already?