VII
A REVOLVER SHOT
Doctor Patel's division presented an unusually animated appearance that afternoon. Not only were the patients allowed to receive visitors, but quite a number of strange doctors had spent the day going from bed to bed, note-books in hand, studying the patients and their temperature charts. The nurses hesitated to call these individuals doctors, and the patients, too, seemed aware of their true status. Whispers were hushed, and all eyes turned toward the far end of the ward.
There, in a bed set slightly apart and near the house staff's quarters, lay Josephine, a prey to a racking fever and breathing with difficulty.
Exactly opposite her was the bed of an old woman who had been admitted that morning. Her face had almost entirely disappeared under voluminous bandages.
As the ward clock struck a quarter to three, an attendant appeared and announced:
"In ten minutes visitors will be requested to leave."
Two of the staff who had paced the ward since early in the day exchanged a smile.
"Here's the end of the farce," remarked one; "Loupart isn't coming."
"He said three; there are still thirteen minutes left," replied the other.