“I thought I heard somebody come in a little while ago. Must have been—”
“Go down and shut it this instant. And stay downstairs, you goose.”
The door closed sharply and Mr. Sikes, recovering from a temporary paralysis, clumsily got to his feet and hurried into the hall.
“Never mind, Ollie,” he whispered hoarsely to the figure descending the stairs. “I’ll shut it. Some darned fool must have forgot to close it.”
“Isn’t that snow on the floor?” demanded Mr. Baxter, pausing midway on the stairs. The light from the sitting-room door fell upon his pinched, worried face as he peered, blinking, over the banister.
“Must have blowed in,” mumbled Joseph guiltily. “You don’t suppose she’s taken cold, do you, Ollie?”
“She probably has,” groaned Mr. Baxter. “She’s—she’s dying anyhow, Joe—she hasn’t got more than half an hour to live. I—”
“Is the doctor up there?”
“No. He ain’t been here since five o’clock. Oh, the poor—”
“I guess she’s all right or he wouldn’t have gone off and left her,” said Mr. Sikes consolingly. “I guess it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sweep all this snow out. Where’ll I find a broom?”