Peter roused to a chilled and indignant consciousness and sat up in bed.
“Well?”
“Open the door just a crack.”
Resignedly Peter crawled out of bed, carefully turning the coverings up to retain as much heat as possible. An icy blast from the open window blew round him, setting everything movable in the little room to quivering. He fumbled in the dark for his slippers, failed to find them, and yawning noisily went to the door.
Anna Gates, with a candle, was outside. Her short, graying hair was out of its hard knot, and hung in an equally uncompromising six-inch plait down her back. She had no glasses, and over the candle-frame she peered shortsightedly at Peter.
“It's about Jimmy,” she said. “I don't know what's got into me, but I've forgotten for three days. It's a good bit more than time for a letter.”
“Great Scott!”
“Both yesterday and to-day he asked for it and to-day he fretted a little. The nurse found him crying.”
“The poor little devil!” said Peter contritely. “Overdue, is it? I'll fix it to-night.”
“Leave it under the door where I can get it in the morning. I'm off at seven.”