“When I’m up there,” said the doctor. “Not that it will do any good. But the law requires it”
“Won’t they investigate?”
“They’ll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, they investigate, but don’t prosecute.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and went upstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to where Bridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merely were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn, were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer, reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. Peter asked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and sister. Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a little money laid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. “Mr. Moriarty gave us the whisky and beer at half price,” the girl explained incidentally. “Thank you, sir. We don’t need anything.” Peter rose to go. “Bridget was often speaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for her.”
Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb’s patients. These were in a fair way for recovery.
“They didn’t get any of the milk till last night,” the gray-haired, rather sad-looking doctor told him, “and I got at them early this morning. Then I suspected the milk at once, and treated them accordingly. I’ve been forty years doing this sort of thing, and it’s generally the milk. Dr. Sawyer, next door, is a new man, and doesn’t get hold quite as quick. But he knows more of the science of the thing, and can make a good analysis.”
“You think they have a chance?”
“If this heat will let up a bit” said the doctor, mopping his forehead. “It’s ninety-eight in here; that’s enough to kill a sound child.”
“Could they be moved?”
“To-morrow, perhaps.”