Mr. Rose released Rupert's shoulder, both men equally oblivious of the pain his grasp had inflicted on bruised flesh and muscle, and turned his gray face to the surrounding group in dumb quest of confirmation. Then, moving stiffly, he walked toward the house.
There was an authority in his bearing that gained him unopposed entrance. In the hall, nauseating with the ominous odor of antiseptics, he was met by one of the doctors.
"You can turn my house into a hospital," Mr. Rose said briefly. "I want Gerard taken there instead of to your places. You can have all the money you like."
The man looked at the card presented, his professional impassivity flickering, but shook his head.
"He would better not be moved at all, sir; at least, not to-day. He can be asked, if you wish."
"He is conscious, then?"
"Just about," he shrugged, reaching for the door. "Here, if you care to go in."
The room was glaring with light, the lace curtains were dragged wide apart from the windows and the shades rolled high. Idle now in the presence of more skilled attendants, but recognized as one who had earned the right to be there, Corrie stood near the foot of the improvised bed, leaning against the wall with his fair head slightly bent. At the sound of the door he turned that way, as Mr. Rose stopped on the threshold.
The snapping latch, or some more subtle influence, aroused someone else. Slowly Gerard's heavy lashes lifted, and he saw father and son looking at each other across the parlor strewn with the tragic litter of the last hour's work. There was nothing to interrupt the triple regard; it endured long, with steadfast intensity.
In a corner two surgeons were holding a subdued consultation, a third was busied at the marble table, the attention of all fully engaged.