could see the stoop. After a time, he saw another woman enter. And another.
And he saw a fat one come out and waddle slowly in the other direction.
An hour passed. David became uneasy. He felt the neighbors across the street were peering at him from behind their curtains. Once a policeman walked by and looked at him sharply.
When another thirty minutes passed, David began to worry. Then the door opened and Sara appeared. She stood a moment in front ot the house, then began to walk slowly toward him. He wondered:
“She can’t miss seeing me. What will she say?”
But when Sara reached the vacant lot, David saw that she walked with the dazed tread o£ a somnambulist. She looked neither to her right nor to her left. And when she was so close that David could, had he wished, reached out and touched her, he saw that her face—if it were possible—was more white and her lips more scarlet.
Impulsively he walked rapidly after her, caught up with her and grasped her by the arm.
“Sara!”
She stopped. Her head turned slowly. At first there was no note of recognition in her blank face.
“Sara, for Lord’s sake. . .
She leaned forward, peering at him as if she were hunting something in the dark. Then recognition came. Her eyes blazed hatred. And while David stood in his tracks, bewildered, she shook herself free and marched away. . . .
David did not retain his secret. He did not, it is true, trouble Pierre. But he stopped at a doorway on Spruce Street. There was only one difference between that doorway and a hundred other doorways in this center of the city’s medical profession. The brass plate, which was just like all the other brass plates, bore the name: Justin Hardt, M.D.
A trim maid in a black dress and white lace-edged apron opened the stained-glass door. She led David into a large airy reception room. Double doors, leading into the doctor’s office, were dosed. After about five minutes they opened. Dr. Hardt stuck his houndlike head out.
“Oh, hello, Trent.”
He motioned David in and seated him in a cozy chair on the opposite side of his wide mahogany desk. He offered David a cigarette and sat back, his full lips half parted, his blue eyes sharply on David’s face, his fingers adjusted to his glasses. He was blunt.
“What’s on your mind?”
David was equally blunt.
“Sara de Camp-d’Avesnes.”
Hardt ‘‘h’m-m-ed.”
“I don’t cure dipsomaniacs,” he said coldly. “Get Fulton.”
“But she isn’t,” protested David, “a dipsomaniac.”
“She looked like it the other night.”
“It was the first time,” David replied deliberately, “that I ever saw her drunk. And even if she were one, it certainly would fall into your specialty.”
Hardt’s tone was belligerent.
“No, sir; I draw the line there.”
David leaned forward, his arms resting on the flat top of the desk, the fingers of his huge hands entwined.
“There’s something there more than that,” he urged.
Hardt nodded slowly.
“I dare say,” he returned coldly. “There usually is something behind the craving. But I stay away from those cases. They injure my practice.”
Words tangled in David’s throat as they always did when he became excited. He struggled to control them. Finally:
“Now, see here, Doctor. If I can show you that there are other things—that—well, led up to that night. . . . I know—I admit—well, hang it! When a person’s drunk is no time to give ’em a going over. I'm not crazy enough not to know that. . . . I mean, I don’t know anything about your work, but there were probably symptoms there that—if you saw ’em when she wasn’t drunk—you’d assign to some other causes.”
He was actually pleading. Dr. Hardt continued to stare into his face. His confidence in his own beliefs made him a hard man to convince of anything. But he listened, if
And he saw a fat one come out and waddle slowly in the other direction.
An hour passed. David became uneasy. He felt the neighbors across the street were peering at him from behind their curtains. Once a policeman walked by and looked at him sharply.
When another thirty minutes passed, David began to worry. Then the door opened and Sara appeared. She stood a moment in front ot the house, then began to walk slowly toward him. He wondered:
“She can’t miss seeing me. What will she say?”
But when Sara reached the vacant lot, David saw that she walked with the dazed tread o£ a somnambulist. She looked neither to her right nor to her left. And when she was so close that David could, had he wished, reached out and touched her, he saw that her face—if it were possible—was more white and her lips more scarlet.
Impulsively he walked rapidly after her, caught up with her and grasped her by the arm.
“Sara!”
She stopped. Her head turned slowly. At first there was no note of recognition in her blank face.
“Sara, for Lord’s sake. . .
She leaned forward, peering at him as if she were hunting something in the dark. Then recognition came. Her eyes blazed hatred. And while David stood in his tracks, bewildered, she shook herself free and marched away. . . .
David did not retain his secret. He did not, it is true, trouble Pierre. But he stopped at a doorway on Spruce Street. There was only one difference between that doorway and a hundred other doorways in this center of the city’s medical profession. The brass plate, which was just like all the other brass plates, bore the name: Justin Hardt, M.D.
A trim maid in a black dress and white lace-edged apron opened the stained-glass door. She led David into a large airy reception room. Double doors, leading into the doctor’s office, were dosed. After about five minutes they opened. Dr. Hardt stuck his houndlike head out.
“Oh, hello, Trent.”
He motioned David in and seated him in a cozy chair on the opposite side of his wide mahogany desk. He offered David a cigarette and sat back, his full lips half parted, his blue eyes sharply on David’s face, his fingers adjusted to his glasses. He was blunt.
“What’s on your mind?”
David was equally blunt.
“Sara de Camp-d’Avesnes.”
Hardt ‘‘h’m-m-ed.”
“I don’t cure dipsomaniacs,” he said coldly. “Get Fulton.”
“But she isn’t,” protested David, “a dipsomaniac.”
“She looked like it the other night.”
“It was the first time,” David replied deliberately, “that I ever saw her drunk. And even if she were one, it certainly would fall into your specialty.”
Hardt’s tone was belligerent.
“No, sir; I draw the line there.”
David leaned forward, his arms resting on the flat top of the desk, the fingers of his huge hands entwined.
“There’s something there more than that,” he urged.
Hardt nodded slowly.
“I dare say,” he returned coldly. “There usually is something behind the craving. But I stay away from those cases. They injure my practice.”
Words tangled in David’s throat as they always did when he became excited. He struggled to control them. Finally:
“Now, see here, Doctor. If I can show you that there are other things—that—well, led up to that night. . . . I know—I admit—well, hang it! When a person’s drunk is no time to give ’em a going over. I'm not crazy enough not to know that. . . . I mean, I don’t know anything about your work, but there were probably symptoms there that—if you saw ’em when she wasn’t drunk—you’d assign to some other causes.”
He was actually pleading. Dr. Hardt continued to stare into his face. His confidence in his own beliefs made him a hard man to convince of anything. But he listened, if
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