"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?"
"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all swollen. He can't eat anything."
Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him.
"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl, hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute, ask the landlady—wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another—a delay may make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?"
The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained peevish and unsatisfactory replies.
It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his examination breathlessly.
"Is it serious?"
"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should have thought! Are you a resident?"
"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you ask?"
"The child had better be removed—there's danger of infection with diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way."