“Yes; you will find it on this paper, given me by the proper authorities.”
“What is the name of the person you desire to see?”
The superintendent opened a book that lay on the table beside him, and drew his finger up and down the page.
“Maurice Carlyle.”
“Ah, yes,—I have it now. Maurice Carlyle, Ward 3,—cot No. 7. Madam, may I ask,—”
“No, sir; I have no inclination to answer idle questions. Will you show me the way, or shall I find it?”
“Certainly, I will conduct you; but I was about to remark that a death has just occurred in Ward No. 3, and I am under the impression that it was the Elm Street case. Madam, you look faint; shall I bring you a glass of water?”
“No. Show me the body of the dead.”
“This way, if you please.”
He walked down a dim, low-vaulted passage, and paused at 427 the entrance of a room lined with cots, where the nurse was slowly passing from patient to patient.