“But you say yourself that neither of you saw his face, Dr. Peters.”
“You are quite right,” Prissy purred, “we did not see his face ... but I would swear upon my mother’s Bible that it was he.”
“I’ll ask him,” MacArthur’s voice was decisive.
“Please, MacArthur, don’t act hastily! It would be futile to ask him, and if it were not for the horrible slur upon the hospital....”
Princeton’s pleading was so intense that he did not note Dr. MacArthur’s silent anger, but Prissy sensed it.
“You must get some rest, MacArthur,” he soothed. “Come on Peters,” and at the door he finished. “Great decisions must be made and we shall not meet them unprepared.”
Miss Evelina Kerr, student nurse, lay prone upon her bed, sobbing bitterly, silently, rackingly. Outside her door a supervisor from Medicine Clinic, off duty at the time, sat erect in a straight back chair, reading one of Edgar Wallace’s novels.
Up and down the hall of the Nurses’ Home voices rose and fell. The nurses on night shift were awakening. Miss Roenna Kerr, head nurse in Medicine Clinic, sailed down the polished floor and as her reflection preceded her, a loud whisper sung.
“Foots!”
The voices ceased, and the doors filled with blond, black, straw-colored, yellow and red heads in all degrees of disarray. Thirty pairs of eyes saw her switch her stern to a halt in front of the supervisor and smile.