‘Tell me, Herr Doktor, haf I kilt her?’
He left her and hurried off, still frowning. Just as he turned the corner of the gallery, Egbert and Peter, who had been lying in wait for him some fifteen minutes, sprang out upon him from an open door.
‘How is she?’ they asked eagerly.
‘Really!’ fumed the Doctor, who hated being taken by surprise. ‘The bulletin is with Miss Finlayson; I have no time––’
Peter grasped his arm as he was escaping. ‘Is she going to get better?’ he implored. There was no mistaking the earnestness in the boy’s face, and the Doctor melted in spite of himself.
‘Yes, yes, to be sure,’ he growled. ‘That is, if you leave her alone.’
When he reached the staircase he was again brought to a standstill. The way was entirely blocked by the massive form of the German music-master, who sat on the top stair with his face buried in his large, fat hands. The Doctor tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. If one thing more than another annoyed him, it was the sight of uncontrolled emotion.
‘Pardon me,’ he said briskly, ‘but will you kindly––’