Dr. Farquhar’s suspicious face relaxed. “Five guineas,” he said, looking the picture of an English middle-class trader.
Stilson gave him the money. He carefully placed the five-pound note in his pocket-book and the five shillings in his change-purse. “Let me see the patient,” he said, resuming the manner of the small soul striving to play the part of “great man.” Stilson led the way to the sagged, hand-grimed door. Farquhar opened it and entered. “This foul air is enough to cause death by itself,” he said with a sneering glance at Wackle. “No—let the window alone!”—this to Wackle in the tone a brutal master would use to his dog.
Wackle stood as if petrified and Farquhar went to the head of the bed. Marguerite opened her eyes and closed them without seeing anything. He laid his hand upon her forehead, then flung away the covers and listened at her chest. “Umph!” he grunted and with powerful hands lifted her by the shoulders. Grasping her still more firmly he shook her roughly. Again he listened at her chest. “Umph!” he growled. He looked into her face which was now livid, then shook her savagely and listened again. He let her drop back against the pillows and tossed the covers over her. He took up his hat which lay upon a silk-and-lace dressing gown spread across the foot of the bed. He stalked from the room.
“Well?” said Stilson, when they were in the hall.
The great specialist shrugged his shoulders. “She may last ten hours—but I doubt it. I can do nothing. Good day, sir.” And he jerked his head and went away.
Stilson stood in the little hall—Wackle, the landlady and the maid-of-all-work a respectful group a few feet away. His glance wandered helplessly round, and there was something in his expression that made Wackle feel for his handkerchief and Mrs. Clocker and the maid burst into tears. Stilson went stolidly back to Marguerite’s room. He paused at the door, turned and descended. “Can you stay?” he said to Wackle. “I will pay you.”
“Gladly, sir. I’ll wait here with Mrs. Clocker.”
Stilson reascended, entered the room and again stood beside Marguerite. With gentle hands he arranged her pillow and the covers. Then he seated himself. An hour—two hours passed—he was not thinking or feeling; he was simply waiting. A stir in the bed roused him. “Who is there?” came in Marguerite’s voice, faintly. “Is it some one? or am I left all alone?”
“What can I do, Marguerite?” Stilson bent over her.
She opened her eyes, without surprise, almost without interest. “You?” she said. “Now they won’t dare neglect me.”