She went to her room, slightly relieved, and fell at once to planning.
The fact that he had taken an office, was self-evident that he was preparing some extensive campaign with regard to his book. As it stood now, whatever he had been arranging would stop at once.
It was late that evening when she retired. But, before sleep came to her eyes that night, she had decided upon a course of action.
Mildred arose early, dressed, heated some tea, and ate a light lunch. Then she threw on a dress, hurried out of the house and down to the ferry. An hour later, she was at the hospital.
"I called, beg pardon," she began, "to inquire about a patient who was brought here last evening, and who, I understand, was stricken with typhoid-pneumonia. His name is Sidney Wyeth, and he is a colored man."
After a moment, in which the record was consulted, the informant turned to her and said: "Sidney Wyeth, a colored man, serious attack of typhoid-pneumonia. In the ward of contagious diseases. Cannot be seen, Madam, I regret to say."
"Indeed—ah,—did you say—it—was—quite serious?" she inquired, tremulously.
"Quite serious, Madam. Quite serious."
"There is no doubt, however—ah, that he will recover?"
"We are not allowed to give out information of that nature. He may recover, and still he may not; but we cannot say."