Mrs. Stewart opened the door.
"Here's one boy," said the surgeon grimly, pushing Trevelyan's son over the threshold, "There's another in the dining-room."
"You're a nice one to leave a chap asleep and then sneak off. I wouldn't have been so mean!"
Rob blinked in the glare of the dining-room lamp, and shifted from the stockingless leg to the covered one, "I didn't think Johnny Stewart—" His voice rose.
Johnny came forward.
"Stop that shouting!" he commanded, "Don't you know Cary's very, very sick?"
Rob blinked again. It was a blink of astonishment. He had never seen Johnny quite so angry before.
"'Course I know she's sick. That's why I've come." He sat down on the extreme edge of a chair.
There was a long, long silence. Johnny sat at the big table, his chin between his hands and looked straight ahead of him. Rob looked moodily into the fire. Once the younger boy rose and went to the foot of the stairs.
"What you suppose is happening up there?" he inquired when he came back.