The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor, with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered——
The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes of the two men met questioningly.
"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing.
"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only in lodgings. I'd like——"
"Let me see!"
Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements; every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the child across her arm.
"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away, Nurse—put him into a special ward."
"I should like——" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here. Might I see her?"
"Yes, certainly. Which one?"
"Her name is 'Brettan—Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now——?"