Doctor McMurray moved away from the window and began to draw on his overcoat.
"Why, you're not going, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with a note of distress in her voice, as her eye took in his action.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs. Trent, but I must look in at old Mr. Gebhart's on the way down. The poor man has stomach trouble, I believe—they say it's just the same thing that Mr. Withey had—and I think he'll be looking for me."
"Doctor, you're so kind," Mrs. Trent interjected. "You're always keeping an eye out for the unfortunate. But look here. I've got some medicine out here in the pantry, some Epsom salts, which they used to come and get for old Mr. Withey. They used to tell me it did him a lot of good. I wish you could wait till I get a little for Mr. Gebhart."
Mrs. Trent hastened from the room, and Doctor McMurray heard her moving pans and bottles on the shelves as though she were in search of the medicine. Suddenly the sound ceased; he waited a minute or two, pacing uneasily up and down the room, with the thought of the sick old man heavy upon his mind. At last he called:
"Mrs. Trent, can't I help you? Don't trouble if you can't find it easily."
No answer reached his ears for a moment. Then Mrs. Trent emerged from the pantry walking unsteadily, as though she carried a terrific weight. Doctor McMurray was at her side in an instant, and led her to a chair.
"Tell me," he urged, "what is it? What is the trouble?"
Mrs. Trent covered her face with her hands, and her slender figure bent silently before the strength of her emotion.
"Look," she moaned at last; "go and look for yourself. There are two of them, two."