We should have followed her as she hurried upstairs through a door near the head of the bed, had we not heard a heavy footstep in the kitchen, and a voice saying: “Is the old lady going to drink with the Devil? Hullo, Mrs. May, come and drink with me!” We heard the tinkle of the liquor poured into a glass, and almost immediately the light tap of the empty tumbler on the table.
“I’ll see what the old girl’s up to,” he said, and the heavy tread came towards us. Like me, he stumbled at the little step, but escaped collision with the table.
“Damn that fool’s step,” he said heartily. It was the doctor—for he kept his hat on his head, and did not hesitate to stroll about the house. He was a big, burly, red-faced man.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, observing my mother. My mother bowed.
“Mrs. Beardsall?” he asked, taking off his hat.
My mother bowed.
“I posted a letter to you. You are a relative of his—of poor old Carlin’s?”—he nodded sideways towards the bed.
“The nearest,” said my mother.
“Poor fellow—he was a bit stranded. Comes of being a bachelor, Ma’am.”
“I was very much surprised to hear from him,” said my mother.