“The boy above is worse,” he said briefly. “A strange doctor has just come, and but now the Herr Doktor Byrne runs to the drug store.”
The Portier's wife shrugged her shoulders even while tears filled her eyes.
“What can one expect?” she demanded. “The good Herr Gott has forbidden theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen. Also the druggist has gone to visit his wife's mother.”
“Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up.”
“And see for a moment that hussy of the streets! Remain here. I shall go.”
Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs.
Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor. He found Peter's excitement rather amusing. So this was where Peter lived, an old house, isolated in a garden where rambled young women with soft voices. Hello, a youngster asleep! The boy, no doubt.
He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie. The place was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung the indescribable odor of drugs that meant illness. He remembered that the boy was frail.
Marie turned as he stopped in the salon doorway, and then rose, white-faced. Across the wide spaces of the room they eyed each other. Marie's crisis had come. Like all crises it was bigger than speech. It was after a distinct pause that she spoke.
“Hast thou brought the police?”