“The doctor's came, Sister,” said a woman standing by Aggie's door. Then Glory entered the room.
The poor disordered place was lit by a cheap lamp, which threw splashes of light and left tracts of shadow. John lay on the bed, muttering words that were inaudible. His coat and waistcoat had been removed, and his shirt was open at the neck. The high wall of his forehead was marble white, but his cheeks were red and feverish. One of his arms lay over the side of the bed and Glory took it up and held it. Her great eyes were moist, but she did not cry, neither did she speak or move. The doctor was bathing a wound at the back of the head, and he looked up and nodded as Glory entered. At the other side of the bed an elderly woman in a widow's cap was wiping her eyes with her apron.
When the doctor was going away, Glory followed him to the door.
“Is he seriously injured, doctor?”
“Very.” The doctor was a young man—quick, brusque, and emphatic.
“Not dange——”
“Yes. The brutes have done for him, nurse, though you needn't tell his friends so.”
“Then—there is—no chance—whatever?”
“Not a ghost of a chance. By the way, you might try to find out where his friends are, and send a line to them. I'll be here in the morning. Good-night!”
Glory staggered back to the room, with her hand pressed hard over her heart, and the young doctor, going downstairs two steps at a stride, met a police sergeant and a reporter coming up. “Cruel business, sir!” “Yes, but just one of those things that can't easily be brought home to anybody.” “Sad, though!” “Very sad!”