“Are you Doctor Mark?”
I nodded.—I am this night! What monstrous irony is this, calling me by a name that brings to gentle eyes commiseration and respect?
“We did what we could.”
“Both of them?” I spoke low, fearing an echo in the empty hall.
He bowed his head and shut his lips against the anatomical details that urged them.
“And Fergus, the chauffeur?”
“He is not in danger. He was thrown free through the windshield. Contusions. Lacerations. A simple fracture in shoulder and arm. They were pinned in. Windows shut. It was raining hard. Do you ... do you ... want to see them?”
I shook my head. I saw them clear enough.
“First,” I said, “let me see Fergus.”
The boy lay in his high bed, bandaged: his bruised face gleaming with a spiritual torture that was almost like thirst in its need of being quenched.