“Oh, nothing,” he replied.
Silence fell once more on the nursery.
Steve was bracing himself up for another attack when suddenly there came a sound of voices from the stairs. One voice was a mere murmur, but the other was sharp and unmistakable, the incisive note of Lora Delane Porter. It brought Steve and Mamie to their feet simultaneously.
“What’s it matter?” said Steve stoutly, answering the panic in Mamie’s eyes. “It’s not her house, and I got a perfect right to be here.”
“You don’t know her. I shall get into trouble.”
Mamie was pale with apprehension. She knew her Lora Delane Porter, and she knew what would happen if Steve were to be discovered there. It was, as Keggs put it, as much as her place was worth.
For a brief instant Mamie faced a future in which she was driven from Bill’s presence into outer darkness, dismissed, and told never to return. That was what would happen. Sitting and talking with Steve in the sacred nursery at this time of night was a crime, and she had known it all the time. But she had been glad to see Steve again after all this while—if Steve had known how glad, he would certainly have found courage and said what he had so often failed to say—and, knowing that Mrs. Porter was out, she had thought the risk of his presence worth taking. Now, with discovery imminent, panic came upon her.
The voices were quite close now. There was no doubt of the destination of the speakers. They were heading slowly but directly for the nursery.
Steve, not being fully abreast of the new rules and regulations of the sacred apartment, could not read Mamie’s mind completely. He did not know that, under Mrs. Porter’s code, the admission of a visitor during the hours of sleep was a felony in the first degree, punishable by instant dismissal. But Mamie’s face and her brief reference to trouble were enough to tell him that the position was critical, and with the instinct of the trapped he looked round him for cover.
But the White Hope’s nursery was not constructed with a view to providing cover for bulky gentlemen who should not have been there. It was as bare as a billiard-table as far as practicable hiding-places were concerned.
And then his eye caught the waterproof sheet of the shower-bath. Behind that there was just room for concealment.
With a brief nod of encouragement to Mamie, he leaped at it. The door opened as he disappeared.
Mrs. Porter’s rules concerning visitors, though stringent as regarded Mamie, were capable of being relaxed when she herself was the person to relax them. She had a visitor with her now—a long, severe-looking lady with a sharp nose surmounted by spectacles, who, taking in the white tiles, the thermometer, the cot, and the brass knobs in a single comprehensive glance, observed: “Admirable!”
Mrs. Porter was obviously pleased with this approval. Her companion was a woman doctor of great repute among the advanced apostles of hygiene; and praise from her was praise indeed. She advanced into the room with an air of suppressed pride.
“These tiles are thoroughly cleaned twice each day with an antiseptic solution.”
“Just so,” said the spectacled lady.
“You notice the thermometer.”
“Exactly.”
“Those knobs you see on the wall have various uses.”
“Quite.”
They examined the knobs with an air of profound seriousness, Mrs. Porter erect and complacent, the other leaning forward and peering through her spectacles. Mamie took advantage of their backs and turned to cast a hurried glance at the waterproof curtain. It was certainly an admirable screen; no sign of Steve was visible; but nevertheless she did not cease to quake.
“This,” said Mrs. Porter, “controls the heat. This, this, and this are for the ventilation.”
“Just so, just so, just so,” said the doctor. “And this, of course, is for the shower-bath? I understand!”
And, extending a firm finger, she gave the knob a forceful push.
Mrs. Porter nodded.
“That is the cold shower,” she said. “This is the hot. It is a very ingenious arrangement, one of Malcolmson’s patents. There is a regulator at the side of the bath which enables the nurse to get just the correct temperature. I will turn on both, and then—”
It was as Mrs. Porter’s hand was extended toward the knob that the paralysis which terror had put upon Mamie relaxed its grip. She had stood by without a movement while the cold water splashed down upon the hidden Steve. Her heart had ached for him, but she had not stirred. But now, with the prospect of allowing him to be boiled alive before her, she acted.
It is generally only on the stage that a little child comes to the rescue of adults at critical moments; but William Bannister was accorded the opportunity of doing so off it. It happened that at the moment of Mrs. Porter’s entry Mamie had been standing near his cot, and she had not moved since. The consequence was that she was within easy reach of him; and, despair giving her what in the circumstances amounted to a flash of inspiration, she leaned quickly forward, even as Mrs. Porter’s finger touched the knob, and gave the round head on the pillow a rapid push.
William Bannister sat up with a grunt, rubbed his eyes, and, seeing strangers, began to cry.
It was so obvious to Mrs. Porter and her companion, both from the evidence of their guilty consciences and the look of respectful reproach on Mamie’s face, that the sound of their voices had disturbed the child, that they were routed from the start.
“Oh, dear me! He is awake,” said the lady doctor.
“I am afraid we did not lower our voices,” added Mrs. Porter. “And yet William is usually such a sound sleeper. Perhaps we had better—”
“Just so,” said the doctor.
“—go downstairs while the nurse gets him off to sleep again.”
“Quite.”
The door closed behind them.
“Oh, Steve!” said Mamie.
The White Hope had gone to sleep again with the amazing speed of childhood, and Mamie was looking pityingly at the bedraggled object
