turbed. No doubt he was still numb with sleep. Within a few moments all his muscles would be thoroughly awake, and he would be able to rise.
But seconds accumulated into minutes, and Sanders rapidly lost his confidence. Obviously something very strange was the matter with him. He had never been like this before. His head was perfectly clear. Yet his body remained numb, and his muscles would not respond to his commands.
He had stared at one particular spot of ceiling many minutes before he became aware that he could stare at that spot and no other. He could not, try as he might, change the focus of his eyes. He could not even flicker his eyelashes. He must lie there, immobile, staring fixedly at that one spot of strange ceiling.
Realization of this drove him into a rage. No prisoner bound fast by his most hated enemy could have been more angered by his predicament.
Then, after a few seconds of this futile rage, Sanders controlled himself, called his reason to his rescue. He began to think, to trace his movements backward.
A blinding flash. A sallow, sickly face. "So put away that toy" . . . "Ive only done my duty" . . . "Here, here, Costello!"
So he had been shot! That little fool, Costello, had really fired that tiny pistol. Sanders would have laughed, only his frozen muscles would not evoke laughter. He felt not the least anger toward Costello. Being quite without a sense of justice, he had no excuse to bear malice.
He forgot Costello at once, thought only of his present disconcerting state. Obviously the bullet from Costello' s little gun had struck a vital spot in his nervous system and left him paralyzed. Despair staggered him. Would he be like this always, a paralytic charge? Perhaps not. Maybe he was only temporarily stunned. But he must know the truth at once.
Certainly there was a doctor or a nurse close by, for this strange room must be the room of a hospital. So Sanders decided at once to call out.
But his lips did not move. His tongue lay immobile in his mouth. Again he became enraged. How was he to let anyone know that he had returned to consciousness? Why was no one about to look after him? A fine hospital this! Didn't the staff know any better than to leave alone a man so critically injured?
Again and again, he tried to utter a cry for help. If only he could move his lips ever so little! But they were numb, incapable of motion. He could only lie there and wait.
He did not have to wait long. Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and voices murmured. Probably a doctor and a nurse, Sanders decided. For a moment he endured agony, fearful lest they would go by the door of his room. Heaven be thanked! They were coming in.
But the two who had entered did not approach him. They crossed the room and halted. Sanders tried to face them, but his neck remained rigid, his eyes refused to remove their focus from that spot of ceiling. He heard a familiar rasping. One of the newcomers was dialing a number at the telephone close by.
"Hello," said a coldly professional voice. "This is Doctor Asman. We're all through now, and you can come for the body any time. It's in the general receiving room, third from the left." A pause. "Very good. Either Gowans or I will be here—probably both."
The receiver clattered in the hook.
Sanders was puzzled. He knew Doctor Asman well. Asman was superintendent of the city morgue.
