The only man in the room who appeared to have no interest in the question was Dr. Harrison. He was scrutinizing the shadows of the afternoon sun upon the tops of the trees outside.
Doctors Peters, Hoffbein, Barton, and Paton sat, as much as their respective builds allowed, upon the edges of their chairs, and looked at Bear Sterling.
Bear Sterling resembled his famous nickname. But as the years wore on, it should have been changed to Polar-Bear. He riveted his decisive steel-gray eyes into Peters and growled:
“There were no findings.”
The sentence fell upon the table.
MacArthur, who had sat by judicially, started to close the conference.
Prissy Paton, who had been an obstetrician and gynecologist so long that the staff had grown to consider him partly feminine, blocked MacArthur’s move with his high, soothing purr:
“What do you think is back of it, Ethridge?”
“Can’t seem to find anything, physically, sir.”
Dr. Harrison continued contemplating the leaves. Dr. MacArthur realized the thing must be seen through and settled back in his chair.