“Send for him at once. May I see her?”
The maid set off up the street and Stilson climbed a dingy first flight, a dingier second flight, and came to a low door which sagged far from its frame at the top. He entered softly—“She’s asleep, sir,” whispered Mrs. Clocker.
It was a miserable room where the last serious attempts to fight decay had been made perhaps half a century before. It now presented queer contrasts—ragged and tottering furniture strewn with handsome garments; silk and lace and chiffon and embroidery, the latest Paris devisings, crumpled and tossed about upon patch and stain and ruin; several extravagant hats and many handsome toilet-articles of silver and gold and cut glass spread in a fantastic jumble upon the dirty coverings of a dressing-table and a stand. Against the pillow—its case was neither new nor clean—lay the head of Marguerite. Her face was ugly with wrinkles and hollows, that displayed in every light and shade a skin shiny with sweat, and bluish yellow. Her hair was a matted mass from which had rusted the chemicals put on to hide the streaks of gray. She was in a stupor and was breathing quickly and heavily.
He had come, filled with pity and even eager to see her. He was ashamed of the repulsion which swept through him. Her face recalled all that was horrible in the past, foreboded new and greater horrors. He turned away and left the room. His millstone was once more suspended from his neck.
Dr. Wackle had come—a shabby, young-old man with thin black whiskers and damp, weak lips. In a manner that was a cringing apology for his own existence, he explained that Marguerite had pneumonia—that she was dangerously ill. He had given her up, but the prospect of payment galvanised hope. “There is a chance, sir,” he said. “And with——”
“What is the name and address of the best specialist in lung diseases?” he interrupted.
“There’s Doctor Farquhar in Half Moon Street, sir. He ’as been called by the royal family, sir.”
“Take a cab and bring him at once.”
While Wackle was away, Stilson arranged Marguerite’s account with the landlady and had some of his belongings brought from the Carlton and put into the vacant suite just under Marguerite’s. After two hours Dr. Farquhar came; at his heels Wackle, humble but triumphant. Stilson saw at one sharp glance that here was a man who knew his trade—and regarded it as a trade.
“What is your consultation fee?”