“Another—what! Who?”
“The janitor—Higgins.” And at that second the door to Dr. Hajek’s room opened and Dr. Hajek, his bathrobe hugged about him, ran toward us.
“What was that? What did you say? Higgins? Dead?”
In a few, terse words O’Leary explained and by that time we were all hurrying back to the south wing, Dr. Balman’s white pajamas leading the way. I did not enter Room 18 again with them.
There was plenty of work waiting for me in the wing. As if to make bad matters worse the nurses from all over the hospital were crowding into the south-wing corridor, their pallid faces and wild questions adding to the confusion. The excitement was becoming tumultuous when Dr. Balman came into the corridor, a strange figure in his pajamas and bare feet, his thin hair rumpled and his eyes worried.
“There has been an accident,” he said. His voice carried though it was very low. “Please return immediately to duty. Do not be alarmed.” And it was curious to see the nurses scattering hastily like frightened children caught in mischief.
For a while I had not time or eyes for anything but work. It was difficult enough to calm and soothe the patients of our wing and I paid no attention to the closed door of Eighteen, the flying trips through the corridor made by the two doctors, or O’Leary’s gray suit and thoughtful countenance and shining eyes here and there about the wing.
When the police began to arrive, entering the wing by the south door so as not to be seen by those from other wings, it was a great deal like the repetition of a bad dream. It continued so until along about four o’clock when an ambulance, gleaming oddly white and distinct in the cold gray dawn, was drawn up at the south door. I did not see them leave.
I was trying to control my still shaking hands in order to get the neglected charts written up before turning things over to the day nurses, when O’Leary paused beside me and sat down in the vacant chair.
“What is that on your hands?” he asked suddenly as I wrote.