His prompt attention to the patient imposed a silence which made the moments of waiting seem portentous. Out of this ominous silence would come what dreadful pronouncement? He felt the boy’s pulse, he lifted him and listened at his back, he applied his stethoscope, which harmless instrument has struck terror to more than one fond parent. He said, “Huh.”
“I think he must have been very nervous, doctor,” Mrs. Cowell ventured.
“No, it’s his heart,” said the doctor crisply.
Mrs. Cowell sighed, “It’s serious then?”
“No, not necessarily. He was running too hard. Has he ever been taken like this before?”
“No, never. He always ran freely.”
“Hmph.”
“No history of heart weakness at all, huh? Father living?”
“He died fourteen years ago but it wasn’t heart trouble.” Mrs. Cowell seemed glad of the chance to talk. “We lost a little son—it wasn’t—there was nothing the matter with him—he was stolen—kidnapped. Mr. Cowell refused a demand for ransom because the authorities thought they could apprehend the criminals. We never saw our little son again. It was remorse that he had refused to pay ransom that preyed upon my husband’s mind and broke his health down. That is the little boy’s photograph on the piano.”
The doctor glanced at it respectfully, then, his eye catching Arden, he said pleasantly, “You look healthy enough.”