“I am afraid we can’t get her into a ward. I’ve been trying, but they’re packed.”
“I have the money to pay for a private room,” spoke up Gloria, at the moment bringing from her blouse a very fat bill fold. She opened it and displayed two fifty dollar bills.
“Why, Glory Doane!” exclaimed Trixy. “Been holding up a bank?”
“No, it’s every cent mine,” replied Gloria rather breathlessly. “It was with the money I came here. We owe it to them—”
“Never was money more in order,” exclaimed Dr. Daly, accepting the two yellow bills Gloria offered him.
“But why should I take your money, child?” he presently asked Gloria, as if “the case” had completely obscured his reasoning on that point in the first place.
“Oh, it’s all right, in fact it’s theirs,” faltered Gloria, feeling her face burn and biting her lip to hold it from trembling. “I came out here to bring them this money—”
“I heard Mrs. Gorman say she expected something of the kind,” interrupted the physician. “Well, it has come just in time. Even a hospital can do things for money,” and as he turned to his task, Dr. Daly proved himself to be the man of power his many admirers claimed him, for in less than half an hour the sick woman was on the back seat of Trixy’s big car, with so many robes around her that Trixy kept one hand anxiously near the small white face, lest too much covering should exclude all the air.
Jennings, the chauffeur, had assisted willingly, and with orders from Gloria that she could collect Jane at Logan Center on her way back, Beatrice Travers, the capable daughter of Sandford’s most esteemed manufacturer, gave the word for the cortege to proceed.
Dr. Daly rode in his own small car on ahead.