Business awaited the Commissioner at his office in the Capitol, as he now recalled. However, V.V. was opening his dingy old door.
Without, in the corridor, there was seen standing a scraggly-bearded individual in a ragged shirt, which offered glimpses of a hairy chest in need of soap. A stranger this chanced to be, but the genus was by no means unfamiliar in the environs of the Dabney House. The young doctor's speaking countenance, confronting him, appeared to fall a little. Doubtless he had learned by now the usual business of such as these.
"Good morning," he said, in rather a firm way. "What can I do for you?"
The caller, having turned a china-blue gaze upon his host, wore a confused air. He spoke in a furry, plaintive voice, professional in its way.
"Jes lookin' fer the Doc a minute, sir, that's all. You ain't him, are yer?"
"Why not?..."
And then it came over Vivian who this man must be: surely no other than the Dabney House prodigal, spouse of his own fellow-lodger, landlady, and blanchisseuse. Upon that thought he stepped out into the hall, closing the office door behind him upon Sam O'Neill.
"Yes, I'm the doctor--and you're Mr. Garland, aren't you? Your wife and daughter are friends of mine...."
Mr. Garland accepted the introduction with signs of abashment, but stated his business simply.
"Doc, could you he'p me out with a coat like?"