“What?” Red paused, in the very act of pushing on past her detaining hand. “Bad news, you say?”
“Why, yes—didn’t he tell you? He told me. Two of his sister’s sons are killed—and she only had three, and all in this awful war. Killed almost together, they were. He showed me their pictures—the likeliest looking boys—one looks something like Mr. Black himself. Why, I can’t think why he didn’t tell you, and him so terrible cut up about it.”
Red wheeled, and looked back at the closed study door. He looked again at Mrs. Hodder. “I’m glad you told me,” he said almost under his breath. “I think I’ll—go back.”
He went back, pausing a minute at the door before he opened it. Then he turned the knob softly, as if a very sick patient were lying within. He went in noiselessly, as doctors do, his eyes upon the figure seated again at the desk, its head down upon its folded arms. He crossed over to the desk, and laid his hand on Black’s right arm.
“I’m sorry, lad,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
Black raised his head, and now Red’s eyes saw what they had not seen before—the ravages of a real grief. The red-headed doctor was the possessor of rather the largest heart known to man, and it was that heart which now took command of his words and acts.
“I didn’t know. Black,” Red repeated.
“How do you know now?”
“Mrs. Hodder told me. A curse on me for hitting you when you were down.”
After a minute Black’s hand reached for the thin sheets of closely written paper which he had pushed under the magazine when Red had first entered. He looked them over rapidly, then pointed to a paragraph. Red scanned it as quickly as the unfamiliar handwriting would permit. As he read he gave a low ejaculation or two, eloquent of the impression made upon him.