When he touched her she opened her eyes.
"_Mais, ou suis je_?" she murmured, painfully dragging out the words.
Then followed Emile's name.
The doctor laid her back gently, and stood holding one of her wrists.
"She thinks it's you, Poleski! 'Tis diphtheria. A bad case, too.
Shall want some looking afther. Who's seeing to her?"
"I am," responded Emile, coolly.
"The divil ye are!" The Irishman's long upper lip twitched humorously.
"Well, treat her gintly then, me bhoy! You're wise to be smoking.
Less chance of infection. I'll keep you company." He produced a
couple of thin black cigars, and handed one to Emile.
"See, now," Michael Furness added seriously, "I may as well be telling
you the truth. Your little friend there hasn't a very big chance.
She's been going to bits for some time. If it hadn't been this it
would have been something else. She's got a grand physique, so there's
hope. If she's worse by to-morrow she ought to have an operation.
Only I can't undertake it, ye see. There's the trouble. My hand isn't
as steady as it was, and I haven't the instruments.
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