"Coffee?" Preston continued, as the others remained silent. "Haven't you got anything better than coffee? Where have you been, Mrs. Preston and Dr.—?"
Mrs. Preston tremblingly poured out some coffee and handed it to him. The act enraged the doctor. It seemed symbolical. Preston threw the cup to the floor.
"None of your rot," he shouted. "I bet you have had something more than coffee, you—" he glared at his wife, his limbs trembling and twitching as the nervous irritation gained on him. Sommers sprang forward.
"Go upstairs," he commanded sternly. "You are not fit to be here."
"Who are you to give me orders in my own house before my wife?" The man balanced himself against the table. "You get out of this and never come back. I am a gentleman, I want you to know, and I may be a drunkard and all that, but I am not going to have any man hanging—"
Sommers seized Preston by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the stairs. The man fought and bit and cursed. A black slime of words fell from his lips, covering them all with its defilement. Finally the struggles subsided, and with one mighty effort the doctor threw him into the upper chamber and closed the door behind them. In a few moments he came downstairs, bolting the door carefully. When he entered the room, he saw Mrs. Preston staring at the door as if entranced, her face marble with horror.
"I gave him a hypodermic injection. He will sleep a few hours," Sommers muttered, throwing himself into a chair.
Mrs. Preston sat down at the table and folded her arms about her face. Her figure shook with her silent sobs.
CHAPTER XX
"When the men confront bayonets, you know, they'll give in quick enough. I have reason to believe that the President has already ordered United States troops to protect lives and property in Chicago. The general managers will get an injunction restraining Debs and his crew. When the courts take a hand—"