At midnight a small brougham stopped at the gates of the city hospital in

Rouen. A short distance ahead, the lamps of a cab, drawn up at the

curbing, made two dull orange sparks under the electric light swinging

over the street. A cigarette described a brief parabola as it was tossed

from the brougham, and a short young man jumped out and entered the gates,

then paused and spoke to the driver of the cab.

"Did you bring Mr. Barrett here?"

"Yes, sir," answered the driver; "him and two other gentlemen."

Lighting another cigarette, from which he drew but two inspirations before

he threw it away, the young man proceeded quickly up the walk. As he

ascended the short flight of steps which led to the main doors, he panted

a little, in a way which suggested that (although his white waistcoat

outlined an ellipse still respectable) a crescendo of portliness was

playing diminuendo with his youth. And, though his walk was brisk, it was

not lively. The expression of his very red face indicated that his

briskness was spurred by anxiety, and a fattish groan he emitted on the

top step added the impression that his comfortable body protested against

the mental spur. In the hall he removed his narrow-brimmed straw hat and

presented a rotund and amiable head, from the top of which his auburn hair

seemed to retire with a sense of defeat; it fell back, however, not in

confusion, but in perfect order, and the sparse pink mist left upon his

crown gave, by a supreme effort, an effect of arrangement, so that an

imaginative observer would have declared that there was a part down the

middle. The gentleman's plump face bore a grave and troubled expression,

and gravity and trouble were patent in all the lines of his figure and in

every gesture; in the way he turned his head; in the uneasy shifting of

his hat from one hand to the other and in his fanning himself with it in a

nervous fashion; and in his small, blue eyes, which did not twinkle behind

his rimless glasses and looked unused to not twinkling. His gravity

clothed him like an ill-fitting coat; or, possibly, he might have reminded

the imaginative observer, just now conjured up, of a music-box set to

turning its cylinder backwards.

He spoke to an attendant, and was directed to an office, which he entered

without delay. There were five men in the room, three of them engaged in

conversation near the door; another, a young surgeon, was writing at a

desk; the fifth drowsily nodding on a sofa. The newcomer bowed as he

entered.

"Mr. Barrett?" he said inquiringly.

One of the men near the door turned about. "Yes, sir," he answered, with a

stem disfavor of the applicant; a disfavor possibly a perquisite of his

office. "What's wanted?"




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