the hall and confronted him.
“Two people just arrived here. A man and a woman—in white. Where are they?”
It was trouble then, after all!
“Upstairs—first bedroom to the right.” His teeth chattered. Surely, as a man sowed he reaped.
Joe went up the staircase. At the top, on the landing, he confronted Wilson. He fired at him without a word— saw him fling up his arms and fall back, striking first the wall, then the floor.
The buzz of conversation on the porch suddenly ceased. Joe put his revolver in his pocket and went quietly down the stairs. The crowd parted to let him through.
Carlotta, crouched in her room, listening, not daring to open the door, heard the sound of a car as it swung out into the road.
CHAPTER XXV
On the evening of the shooting at Schwitter’s, there had been a late operation at the hospital. Sidney, having duly transcribed her lecture notes and said her prayers, was already asleep when she received the insistent summons to the operating-room. She dressed again with flying fingers. These night battles with death roused all her fighting blood. There were times when she felt as if, by sheer will, she could force strength, life itself, into failing bodies. Her sensitive nostrils dilated, her brain worked like a machine.
That night she received well-deserved praise. When the Lamb, telephoning hysterically, had failed to locate the younger Wilson, another staff surgeon was called. His keen eyes watched Sidney—felt her capacity, her fiber, so to speak; and, when everything was over, he told her what was in his mind.
“Don’t wear yourself out, girl,” he said gravely. “We need people like you. It was good work tonight—fine work. I wish we had more like you.”
By midnight the work was done, and the nurse in charge sent Sidney to bed.
It was the Lamb who received the message about Wilson; and because he was not very keen at the best, and because the news was so startling, he refused to credit his ears.
“Who is this at the ‘phone?”
“That doesn’t matter. Le Moyne’s my name. Get the message to Dr. Ed Wilson at once. We are starting to the city.”
“Tell me again. I mustn’t make a mess of this.”
“Dr. Wilson, the surgeon, has been shot,” came slowly and distinctly. “Get the staff there and have a room ready. Get the operating-room ready, too.”
The Lamb wakened then, and roused the house. He was incoherent, rather, so that Dr. Ed got the impression that it was Le Moyne who had been shot, and only learned the truth when he got to the hospital.
“Where is he?” he demanded. He liked K., and his heart was sore within him.
“Not in yet, sir. A Mr. Le Moyne is bringing him. Staff’s in the executive committee room, sir.”
“But—who has been shot? I thought you said—”
The Lamb turned pale at that, and braced himself.
“I’m sorry—I thought you understood. I believe it’s not—not serious. It’s Dr. Max, sir.”
Dr. Ed, who was heavy and not very young, sat down on an office chair. Out of sheer habit he had brought the bag. He put it down on the floor beside him, and moistened his lips.
“Is he living?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I gathered that Mr. Le Moyne did not think it serious.”
He lied, and Dr. Ed knew he lied.
The Lamb stood by the door, and Dr. Ed sat and waited. The office clock said half after three. Outside the windows, the night world went by—taxicabs full of roisterers, women who walked stealthily close to the buildings, a truck carrying steel, so heavy that it shook the hospital as it rumbled by.
Dr. Ed sat and waited. The bag with the dog-collar in it was on the floor. He thought of many things, but mostly of the promise he had made his mother. And, having forgotten the injured man’s shortcomings, he was remembering his good qualities—his cheerfulness, his courage, his achievements. He remembered the day Max had done the Edwardes operation, and how proud he had been of him. He figured out how old he was—not thirty-one yet, and already, perhaps—There he stopped thinking. Cold beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“I think I hear them now, sir,” said the Lamb, and stood back respectfully to let him pass out of the door.
Carlotta stayed in the room during the consultation. No one seemed to wonder why she was there, or to pay any attention to her. The staff was stricken. They moved back to make room for Dr. Ed beside the bed, and then closed in again.
Carlotta waited, her hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Surely they would operate; they wouldn’t let him die like that!
When she saw the phalanx break up, and realized that they would not operate, she went mad. She stood against the door, and accused them of cowardice—taunted them.
“Do you think he would let any of you die like that?” she cried. “Die like a hurt dog, and none of you to lift a hand?”
It was Pfeiffer who drew her out of the room and tried to talk reason and sanity to her.
“It’s hopeless,” he said. “If there was a chance, we’d operate, and you know it.”
The staff went hopelessly down the stairs to the smoking-room, and smoked. It was all they could do. The
