The clerk turned to a pile of letters.
"Don't he see nobody here without he pays ten?" the woman asked.
"No."
"Where is the hospital?"
"St. Isidore's—the clinic is every other Saturday at nine."
"But my head hurts awful bad. The doctor up our way don't know anything about it."
The clerk no longer answered; she had turned half around in her swivel-chair. Sommers leaned over her desk, and said,—
"Show her into my room, No. 3, Miss Clark."
"Dr. Lindsay is very particular," the clerk protested.
"I will be responsible," Sommers answered sharply, in the tone he had learned to use with hospital clerks when they opposed his will. He turned to get his mail. The clerk shrugged her shoulders with a motion that said, 'Take her there yourself.' Sommers beckoned to the woman to follow him. He took her to one of the little compartments on the inner corridor, which was lined with strange devices: electrical machines, compressed air valves, steam sprays—all the enginery of the latest invention.