One morning the janitor opened Dalny's door without knocking and closed it softly behind him. He seemed laboring under some excitement.
"He's up at St. Luke's Hospital; they took him there last night," he said in a whisper, jerking his thumb toward the ceiling.
"Who?"
"'Old Sunshine.'"
"Crazy?"
"No; ill with fever; been sick for a week. Not bad, but the doctor would not let him stay here."
"Did the sister go?" There was a note of alarm in Dalny's voice.
"No, she is upstairs. That's why I came. I don't think she has much to eat. She won't let me in. Maybe you can get her to talk to you; she likes you—she told me so."
Dalny laid down his palette, tiptoed hurriedly up the stairs and knocked gently. There was no response. Then he knocked again, this time much louder, and waited. He heard the rustling of a skirt, but there was no other sound.