Peter opened the letter and read it. Then without a word he gave it open to the Dozent. There was silence in the laboratory while the Dozent read it, silence except for his canary, which was chipping at a lump of sugar. Peter's face was very sober.
“So. A mother! You knew nothing of a mother?”
“Something from the papers I found. She left when the boy was a baby—went on the stage, I think. He has no recollection of her, which is a good thing. She seems to have been a bad lot.”
“She comes to take him away. That is impossible.”
“Of course it is impossible,” said Peter savagely. “She's not going to see the child if I can help it. She left because—she's the boy's mother, but that's the best you can say of her. This letter—Well, you've read it.”
“She is as a stranger to him?”
“Absolutely. She will come in mourning—look at that black border—and tell him his father is dead, and kill him. I know the type.”
The canary chipped at his sugar; the red beard of the Dozent twitched, as does the beard of one who plots. Peter re-read the gushing letter in his hand and thought fiercely.
“She is on her way here,” said the Dozent. “That is bad. Paris to Wien is two days and a night. She may hourly arrive.”
“We might send him away—to another hospital.”