A class of medical students filed in and moved along the wall, the taller ones standing on tiptoe to see the patient. A bearded professor in tweeds followed, whispering, "Here he comes, here he comes."
After a pause, Dr. Gesner waddled through the doorway between his nurses. Three internes came after with white coats flying open, the middle one a Hindu in a blue sash, and then a messenger boy calling, "Telegram for Dr. Gesner!" Three bells rang in the corridor, and the door slid shut.
A path cleared before Dr. Gesner as he made his way to the bed. Helped to a sitting position, he opened the telegram which had been passed from interne to interne.
"You don't mind," he said, turning to the patient's bloody face. He read the message and threw it away. "The police have been holding me for two days. Here my lawyers have a nice case against City Hall, just when this England business comes up—so you're the man who's dangerous and armed! I'm sure Hamilton isn't responsible for that story."
Dr. Gesner had removed some of the cake with Miss Knox's tweezers and was prodding the lipless inflammation.
"Wash this off as gently as you can," said Dr. Gesner, and Miss Knox stepped forward. "And the antiseptic ointment in my bag—it has a purple label."
"I had to give him morphine," said Dr. Brooks.
"Ah—and some antibiotic?"
"Penicillin," said Miss Knox.
"Ah. Now tell me, where is this other man who was put out of commission by these—these throat specialists? I'd like to examine him."