“I had come back for the thermometer.”
The answer crashed like a broken plate, and Dr. Harrison insisted:
“And then?”
“Then I counted her pulse,” her voice was wooden, “gave my medicines. Put out the flowers and called Dr. Mattus about a woman with a heart attack.”
“Why didn’t you give Miss Standish her sleeping potion, when you were distributing medicines?”
“Because, Dr. Barton, Dr. Mattus came up to the heart case and said not to give it to Miss Standish unless she called for it.
“After he went, I dimmed the lights, went to work on my fever charts, made up the midnight medicines, and began studying my nursing manual. William, the orderly, came up the hall twice to ask me about some dishes and the breakfast trays, and then about eleven-thirty, Miss Standish rang and asked for her sleeping potion, and I gave it to her.”
“Are you sure you gave her the right prescription?” Dr. Harrison’s eyes had bored past Dr. Hoffbein and into her.
She pouted her thick lips and lifted her ugly chin.
“Yes, sir, I’m positive. She went to sleep right away. You don’t think, Dr. Harrison...?”