Just then there came a strident voice from another apartment.
“Who the devil is it?” it demanded. “If matters of importance are to be interfered with in this way, it’s time that something was done——”
Here the man with the cough reached out and clapped to a door, shutting out the voice. The landlord looked discomfited.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Shaw,” said he. “I know it’s annoying to you; but Mr. Alva must be worse to-day, and so is very impatient.”
The drawn-looking man coughed hollowly.
“I’m very sorry for the gentleman’s condition,” spoke he, huskily. “But he should remember that there are others here who are equally ill in their own way; and that his outbursts are not at all agreeable.”
The strident voice was lifted once more, this time muffled by the door; then another voice was heard remonstrating and apparently advising. Then there followed a soft rolling sound, the door opened once more and an invalid’s chair made its appearance, propelled by a squat, dark servant, whose flat nose and coarse straight hair gave him the look of an Indian.
Beside the chair hopped a peppery little man with white hair and eye-glasses from which hung a wide black string.
“It makes no difference who he is,” declared the peppery little man, fixing the glasses more firmly upon his nose and speaking to the occupant of the chair. “The facts remain as I have said. But, Mr. Alva, there seems to be very little use in advising you. In spite of all I can say you’ll keep indoors. Suppose it is dark? The darkness can’t hurt you. Suppose it is damp? You can protect yourself against that. Air is what you want—fresh air—billions of gallons of it.”
The man in the chair was wasted and pale; his almost fleshless hands lay upon the chair arms; his limbs seemed shrunken to the bone.