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Updated: May 31, 2025
"They will say the Widow Thorpe's devotion to her brother was not her only excuse for moving into good old Simmy's apartment, and they will also say that Dr. Thorpe must be singularly without practice in order to give all of his time to a solitary case." "Oh, for heaven's sake, Anne," he cried impatiently, "give people credit for having a little commonsense and charity. They—"
For the better part of three weeks Thorpe occupied a room in Simmy's apartment, to be constantly near his one and only patient. He suffered no pecuniary loss in devoting all of his time and energy to young Tresslyn. Ostensibly he was in full charge of the case, but in reality he deferred to the opinions and advice of Dr. Bates, who came once a day.
Then he kicked it again, spinning the Spencer back against the wall. Simmy's cry died to a whimper. A wide stain spread over his nondescript coat just above the belt, and Drew knew that his first shot had found that target. But he was in charge of the situation once again.
Then came the day when Thorpe announced that it was no longer necessary for him to impose upon Simmy's hospitality, and that he was returning that evening to his hotel. George was out of danger. It was then that he said to Anne: "You have been wonderful, Anne. I want to thank you for what you have done to help me. You might have made the situation impossible, but—well, you didn't, that's all.
Simmy smoked in silence, apparently absorbed in watching the angry clouds that blackened the western sky. Presently Thorpe resumed his seat in the window. His eyes did not meet Simmy's as the latter turned toward him. He look straight out over the tops of the great apartment houses on the far side of the Park. "How long has she been living down there alone?" he asked again. "Five or six weeks."
Saying something to the people she was with. God, I—she's the loveliest thing in—" He stopped short, and put his hand to his eyes. Simmy's grip tightened on George's arm, and then for five minutes he argued almost desperately with the younger man. In the end, Tresslyn agreed to go home. He would not go to Anne's.
Kirby reached out, selecting Hatch's bowie knife from the cache of captured weapons. He weighed it across the palm of his hand as if trying its balance and then, with deceptive ease, flipped it. The point thudded into the wall scant inches away from Simmy's right ear, and the little man's head bobbed down so that his nose hit one of his hunched-up knees. "How many 'boys'?" Kirby repeated.
"This ain't fancy grub," he observed to the room at large, "but it's better than nothin'. You want Simmy to bring in Petey, Hatch?" "Th' cap'n's comin'." Simmy's remark was made in a tone of objection. Hatch swung his head around to eye the smaller man. "You bring Petey in!" he ordered. "Now!" he added. For a second or two it appeared that Simmy might rebel, but Hatch stared him down.
They were seated at one of the broad windows in Simmy's living-room, drinking in the cool air that came up from the west in advance of an impending thunderstorm. The day had been hot and stifling. "No sense in letting her know, old man. Secret between you and me, if you don't—" "I'd rather she knew," said Thorpe briefly. "In fact, she will have to know." "What do you mean?"
He slouched but did not stagger, a circumstance which caused Simmy a sharp twinge of uneasiness. He was not intoxicated. Simmy's good sense told him that he would be more dangerous sober than drunk, but he did not falter. At the second shout, young Tresslyn stopped. His hands were thrust deep into his overcoat pockets.
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