The nurse he had summoned hustled out for aromatic ammonia. Sidney, lying among her pillows, looked up at K.
“How is he?”
“A little better. There’s a chance, dear.”
“I have been so mixed up. All the time I was sitting waiting, I kept thinking that it was you who were operating! Will he really get well?”
“It looks promising.”
“I should like to thank Dr. Edwardes.”
The nurse was a long time getting the ammonia. There was so much to talk about: that Dr. Max had been out with Carlotta Harrison, and had been shot by a jealous woman; the inexplicable return to life of the great Edwardes; and—a fact the nurse herself was willing to vouch for, and that thrilled the training-school to the core—that this very Edwardes, newly risen, as it were, and being a miracle himself as well as performing one, this very Edwardes, carrying Sidney to her bed and putting her down, had kissed her on her white forehead.
The training-school doubted this. How could he know Sidney Page? And, after all, the nurse had only seen it in the mirror, being occupied at the time in seeing if her cap was straight. The school, therefore, accepted the miracle, but refused the kiss.
The miracle was no miracle, of course. But something had happened to K. that savored of the marvelous. His faith in himself was coming back—not strongly, with a rush, but with all humility. He had been loath to take up the burden; but, now that he had it, he breathed a sort of inarticulate prayer to be able to carry it.
And, since men have looked for signs since the beginning of time, he too asked for a sign. Not, of course, that he put it that way, or that he was making terms with Providence. It was like this: if Wilson got well, he’d keep on working. He’d feel that, perhaps, after all, this was meant. If Wilson died—Sidney held out her hand to him.
“What should I do without you, K.?” she asked wistfully.
“All you have to do is to want me.”
His voice was not too steady, and he took her pulse in a most businesslike way to distract her attention from it.
“How very many things you know! You are quite professional about pulses.”
Even then he did not tell her. He was not sure, to be frank, that she’d be interested. Now, with Wilson as he was, was no time to obtrude his own story. There was time enough for that.
“Will you drink some beef tea if I send it to you?”
“I’m not hungry. I will, of course.”
“And—will you try to sleep?”
“Sleep, while he—”
“I promise to tell you if there is any change. I shall stay with him.”
“I’ll try to sleep.”
But, as he rose from the chair beside her low bed, she put out her hand to him.
“K.”
“Yes, dear.”
“He was out with Carlotta. He promised, and he broke his promise.”
“There may have been reasons. Suppose we wait until he can explain.”
“How can he explain?” And, when he hesitated: “I bring all my troubles to you, as if you had none. Somehow, I can’t go to Aunt Harriet, and of course mother—Carlotta cares a great deal for him. She said that I shot him. Does anyone really think that?”
“Of course not. Please stop thinking.”
“But who did, K.? He had so many friends, and no enemies that I knew of.”
Her mind seemed to stagger about in a circle, making little excursions, but always coming back to the one thing.
“Some drunken visitor to the roadhouse.”
He could have killed himself for the words the moment they were spoken.
“They were at a roadhouse?”
“It is not just to judge anyone before you hear the story.”
She stirred restlessly.
“What time is it?”
“Half-past six.”
“I must get up and go on duty.”
He was glad to be stern with her. He forbade her rising. When the nurse came in with the belated ammonia, she found K. making an arbitrary ruling, and Sidney looking up at him mutinously.
“Miss Page is not to go on duty to-day. She is to stay in bed until further orders.”
“Very well, Dr. Edwardes.”
The confusion in Sidney’s mind cleared away suddenly. K. was Dr. Edwardes! It was K. who had performed the miracle operation—K. who had dared and perhaps won! Dear K., with his steady eyes and his long surgeon’s fingers! Then, because she seemed to see ahead as well as back into the past in that flash that comes to the drowning and to those recovering from shock, and because she knew that now the little house would no longer be home to K., she turned her face into her pillow and cried. Her world had fallen indeed. Her lover was not true and might be dying; her friend would go away to his own world, which was not the Street.
K. left her at last and went back to Seventeen, where Dr. Ed still sat by the bed. Inaction was telling on him. If Max would only open his eyes, so he could tell him what had been in his mind all these years—his pride in him and all that.
With a sort of belated desire to make up for where he had failed, he put the bag that had been Max’s bete noir on the bedside table, and began to clear it of rubbish—odd bits of dirty cotton, the tubing from a long defunct stethoscope, glass from a broken bottle, a scrap of paper on which was a memorandum, in his illegible writing, to send Max a check for his graduating suit. When K. came in, he had the old dog-collar in his hand.
“Belonged to an old collie of ours,” he said heavily. “Milkman ran over him and killed him. Max chased the wagon and licked the driver with his own whip.”
His face worked.
“Poor old Bobby Burns!” he said. “We’d raised him from a pup. Got him in a grape-basket.”
The sick man opened his eyes.
CHAPTER XXVI
Max had rallied well, and things looked bright for him. His patient did not need him, but K. was anxious to find Joe; so he telephoned the gas office and got a day off. The sordid little tragedy was easy to reconstruct, except that, like Joe, K. did not believe in the innocence of the excursion to Schwitter’s. His spirit was heavy with the conviction that he had saved Wilson to make Sidney ultimately wretched.
For the present, at least, K.‘s revealed identity was safe. Hospitals keep their secrets well. And it is doubtful if the Street would have been greatly concerned even had it known. It had never heard of Edwardes, of the Edwardes clinic or the Edwardes operation. Its medical knowledge comprised the two Wilsons and the osteopath around the corner. When, as would happen soon, it learned of Max Wilson’s injury, it would be more concerned with his chances of recovery than with the manner of it. That was as it should be.
But Joe’s affair with Sidney had been the talk of the neighborhood. If the boy disappeared, a scandal would be inevitable. Twenty people had seen him at Schwitter’s and would know him again.
To save Joe, then, was K.‘s first care.
At first it seemed as if the boy had frustrated him. He had not been home all night. Christine, waylaying K. in the little hall, told him that. “Mrs. Drummond was here,” she said. “She is almost frantic. She says Joe has not been home all night. She says he looks up to you, and she thought if you could find him and would talk to him—”
“Joe was with me last night. We had supper at the White Springs Hotel. Tell Mrs. Drummond he was in good spirits, and that she’s not to worry. I feel sure she will hear from him to-day. Something went wrong with his car, perhaps, after he left me.”
He bathed and shaved hurriedly. Katie brought his coffee to his room, and he drank it standing. He was working out a theory about the boy. Beyond Schwitter’s the highroad stretched, broad and inviting, across the State. Either he would have gone that way, his little car eating up the miles all that night, or—K. would not formulate his fear of what might have happened, even to himself.