An Edith Cavell, a Florence Nightingale, a Jeanne d’Arc, and he had stood in her presence alive ... and dead....
And all of it had been so futile. But as certain as death itself was the knowledge ... within his own mind ... that Cub Sterling had had nothing to do with it. That Cub Sterling could not have stood beside him in that autopsy room a few scant hours ago and the sense of horror and helplessness have so entirely gripped them. And it did grip ... both of them.
He started to telephone for Cub to come to him now and then he remembered about Bear, and his head ... for the first time since he had been Director of the Elijah Wilson Hospital ... fell into his cupped hands, while the door into the corridor stood wide open.
Caesar was dead, Napoleon was dead, Osler was dead, Socrates was dead, Halsted was dead and Bear Sterling was dying....
Dying because of overwork and a bad heart. Sacrificed to his profession by his colleagues! That heart attack yesterday, coupled with the cold had done it.
All the great men were dead or dying.... Coniine....
He turned over Cub Sterling’s testimony concerning the death of Miss Standish, and stared vacantly at the words. Somewhere, at this very minute, there was walking, still free, about the Elijah Wilson Hospital, probably laughing and talking with other patients, a nurse, a doctor ... a man ... a woman ... a murderer....
Dr. MacArthur rose and walked to the far window through which the warm spring sun was shining. He must pull himself together. His duty was not to his emotional beliefs concerning men and their motives. Above all things he must be fair. His duty and theirs was to the hospital and within the next five minutes he must get himself in such perfect control that he could compel them to see it.
The opportunity of the hospital to be of benefit to humanity for the next fifty years depended entirely upon his ability to hold his staff together this morning. To force these exceptionally capable men to think calmly ... and wisely.
He closed his eyes and allowed the sun to penetrate through the lids. A soft spring breeze floated in the opened window. A living, gentle breeze which foretold all the wealth of future living in flowers and fragrances; which expressed as clearly as Chopin might have, how he felt about the small, slim body of Rose Standish.