 Chapter XXIV of K. She coiled her yellow hair in a soft knot at the back of her head, and she resorted to the faintest shading of rouge. She intended to be gay, cheerful. The ride was to be a bright spot in Wilson's memory. He expected recriminations. She meant to make him happy. That was the secret of the charm some women had for men. They went to such women to forget their troubles. She set the hour of the meeting at nine, when the late dusk of summer had fallen, and she met him then, smiling, a faintly perfumed white figure, slim and young, with the thrill in her voice that was only half-assumed. It's very late, he complained. Surely you're not going to be back at ten. I have special permission to be out late. Good. And then, recollecting their new situation. We have a lot to talk over. It will take time. At the White Springs Hotel they stopped to fill the gasoline tank of the car. Joe Drummond saw Wilson there, in the sheet-iron garage alongside of the road. The Wilson car was in shadow. It did not occur to Joe that the white figure in the car was not Sidney. He went rather white, and stepped out of the zone of light. The influence of Lemoine was still on him. However, he went on quietly with what he was doing, but his hands shook as he filled the radiator. When Wilson's car had gone on, he automatically went about his preparations for the return trip, lifted the seat cushion to investigate his own store of gasoline. Replacing carefully the revolver, he always carried under the seat, and packed in waste to prevent its accidental discharge. Lighted his lamps, examined a loose brake band. His coolness gratified him. He had been an ass. Lemoine was right. He'd get away, to Cuba if he could, and start over again. He would forget the street and let it forget him. The men in the garage were talking. To Shwitters, of course, one of them grumbled. We might as well go out of business. There's no money in running a straight place. Shwitter and half a dozen others are getting rich. That was Wilson, the surgeon in town. He cut off my brother-in-law's leg, charged him as much as if he had grown a new one for him. He used to come here. Now he goes to Shwitters, like the rest. Pretty girl he had with him. You can bet on Wilson. So Max Wilson was taking Sidney to Shwitters, making her the butt of garage talk. The mouths of the men were evil. Joe's hands grew cold. His head hot. A red mist spread between him and the line of electric lights. He knew Shwitters. And he knew Wilson. He flung himself into the car and threw the throttle open. The car jerked. Stalled. You can't start it like that, son. One of the men remonstrated. You let her in too fast. You go to hell, Joe snarled, and made a second ineffectual effort. Thus injured. The men offered neither further advice nor assistance. The minutes went by in useless cranking. 15. The red mist grew heavier. Every lamp was a danger signal. But when K, growing uneasy, came out into the yard, the engine had started at last. He was in time to see Joe run his car into the road, and turn it viciously towards Shwitters. Carlotta's nearness was having its calculated effect on Max Wilson. His spirit rose as the engine marking perfect time carried them along the quiet roads. Partly it was a reaction, relief that she should be so reasonable, so complacent. A sort of holiday spirit after day's hard work, oddly enough, and not so irrational as it may appear, Sydney formed part of the evening's happiness, that she loved him, that, back in the lecture room, eyes and even mind on the lecturer, her heart was with him. So with Sydney as the basis of his happiness, he made the most of his evening's freedom. He sang a little in his clear tenor. Even, once when they had slowed down at a crossing, bent over audaciously and kissed Carlotta's hand in the full glare of a passing train. How reckless of you! I like to be reckless, he replied. His boyishness annoyed Carlotta. She did not want the situation to get out of hand. Moreover, what was so real for her was only too plainly a lark for him. She began to doubt her power. The hopelessness of her situation was dawning on her, even when the touch of her beside him, and the solitude of the country roads got in his blood and he bent toward her, she found no encouragement in his words. I'm mad about you tonight. She took her courage in her hands. Then why give me up for someone else? That's different. Why is it different? I am a woman. I, I love you, Max. No one else will ever care as I do. You are in love with the Lamb. That was a trick. I'm sorry, Max. I don't care for anyone else in the world. If you let me go, I'll want to die. Then he was silent. If you'll marry me, I will be true to you all my life. I swear it. There will be nobody else, ever. The sense, if not the words, of what he had sworn to Sydney that Sunday afternoon under the trees, on this very road, swift shame overtook him. That he should be here. That he had allowed Carlotta to remain in ignorance of how things really stood between them. I'm sorry, Carlotta. It's impossible. I'm engaged to marry someone else. Sydney Page. Almost a whisper. Yes, he was ashamed at the way she took the news. If she had stormed or wept, he would have known what to do. But she sat still, not speaking. You must have expected it sooner or later. Still she made no reply. He thought she might faint and looked at her anxiously. Her profile, indistinct beside him, looked white and drawn, but Carlotta was not fainting. She was making a desperate plan. If their escapade became known, it would end things between Sydney and him. She was sure of that. She needed time to think it out. It must become known without any apparent move on her part. If, for instance, she became ill and was away from the hospital all night, that might answer. The thing would be investigated, and who knew? The car turned in at Schwitters Road and drew up before the house. The narrow porch was filled with small tables, above which hung rows of electric lights enclosed in Japanese paper lanterns. Midweek, which had found the White Springs Hotel almost deserted, saw Schwitters crowded tables set out under the trees. Seeing the crowd, Wilson drove directly to the yard and parked his machine. No need of running any risk, he explained to the still figure beside him. We can walk back and take a table under the trees, away from those infernal lanterns. She reeled a little as he helped her out. Not sick, are you? I'm dizzy. I'm all right. She looked white. He felt a stab of pity for her. She leaned rather heavily on him as they walked toward the house. The faint perfume that had almost intoxicated him earlier vaguely irritated him now. At the rear of the house, she shook off his arm and proceeded him around the building. She chose the end of the porch as the place in which to drop, and went down like a stone, falling back. There was a moderate excitement. The visitors at Schwitters were too much engrossed with themselves to be much interested. She opened her eyes almost as soon as she fell, to forestall any tests. She was shrewd enough to know that Wilson would detect her mullingering very quickly, and beg to be taken into the house. I feel very ill, she said, and her white face bore her out. Schwitter and Bill carried her in and up the stairs to one of the newly furnished rooms. The little man was twittering with anxiety. He had a horror of knockout drops and the police. They laid her on the bed her hat beside her, and Wilson, stripping down the long sleeve of her glove, felt her pulse. There's a doctor in the next town, said Schwitter. I was going to send for him anyhow. My wife's not very well. I'm a doctor. Is it anything serious? Nothing serious. He closed the door behind the relieved figure of the landlord, and, going back to Carlotta, stood looking down at her. What did you mean by doing that? Doing what? You were no more faint than I am. She closed her eyes. I don't remember. Everything went black. The lanterns. He crossed the room deliberately and went out, closing the door behind him. He saw it once where he stood. In what danger? If she insisted that she was ill and unable to go back, there would be a fuss. The story would come out. Everything would be gone. Schwitter's of all places. At the foot of the stairs Schwitter pulled himself together. After all, the girl was only ill. There was nothing for the police. He looked at his watch. The doctor ought to be here by this time. It was sooner than they had expected. Even the nurse had not come till he was alone out in the harness room. He looked through the crowded rooms at the overflowing porch with its travesty of pleasure, and he hated the whole thing with a desperate hatred. Another car. Would they never stop coming? But perhaps it was the doctor. A young man edged his way into the hall and confronted him. Two people just arrived here, a man and a woman in white. Where are they? It was trouble then, after all. Upstairs. First bedroom to the right. His teeth chattered. Surely as a man sowed he reaped. Joe went up the staircase. At the top, on the landing, he confronted Wilson. He fired at him without a word. Saw him fling up his arms and fall back, striking first the wall. Then the floor. The buzz of conversation on the porch suddenly ceased. Joe put his revolver in his pocket, and went quietly down the stairs. The crowd parted to let him through. Carlotta, crouched in her room, listening, not daring to open the door, heard the sound of a car as it swung out into the road. Chapter 25 of K. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shasta Oakland, California. By Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 25. On the evening of the shooting at Schvitzers, there had been a late operation at the hospital. Sydney, having duly transcribed her lecture notes and said her prayers, was already asleep when she received the insistent summons to the operating room. She dressed again with flying fingers. These night battles with death roused all her fighting blood. There were times when she felt as if, by sheer will, she could force strength life itself into failing bodies. Her sensitive nostrils dilated. Her brain worked like a machine. That night, she received well-deserved praise. When the lamb, telephoning hysterically, had failed to locate the younger Wilson, another staff surgeon was called. His keen eyes watched Sydney, felt her capacity, her fiber, so to speak. And when everything was over, he told her what was in his mind. Don't wear yourself out, girl, he said gravely. We need people like you. It was good work tonight. Fine work. I wish we had more like you. By midnight, the work was done, and the nurse in charge sent Sydney to bed. It was the lamb who received the message about Wilson, and because he was not very keen at best, and because the news was so startling, he refused to credit his ears. Who is this at the phone? That doesn't matter. Lamoines, my name, get the message to Dr. Ed Wilson at once. We are starting to the city. Tell me again, I mustn't make a mess of this. Dr. Wilson, the surgeon, has been shot, came slowly and distinctly. Get the staff there and have a room ready. Get the operating room ready, too. The lamb awakened then and roused the house. He was incoherent, rather, so that Dr. Ed got the impression that it was Lamoine who had been shot and only learned the truth when he got to the hospital. Where is he, he demanded. He liked Kay, and his heart was sore within him. Not in yet, sir. A Mr. Lamoine is bringing him staffs in the executive committee room, sir. But who has been shot? I thought you said the lamb turned pale at that and braced himself. I'm sorry, I thought you understood. I believe it's not not serious. It's Dr. Maths, sir. Dr. Ed, who was heavy and not very young, sat down on an office chair. Out of sheer habit he had brought the bag. He put it down on the floor beside him and moistened his lips. Is he living? Oh, yes, sir. I gathered that Mr. Lamoine did not think it serious. He lied, and Dr. Ed knew he lied. The lamb stood by the door, and Dr. Ed sat and waited. The office clock said half after three. Outside the windows the night world went by. Taxicabs full of roisters. Women who walked stealthily close to the buildings. A truck carrying steel. So heavy that it shook the hospital as it rumbled by. Dr. Ed sat and waited. The bag with the dog collar in it was on the floor. He thought of many things, but mostly of the promise he had made his mother. And having forgotten the injured man's shortcomings, he was remembering his good qualities, his cheerfulness, his courage, his achievements. He remembered the day Max had done the Edwards operation and how proud he had been of him. He figured out how old he was. Not thirty-one yet, and already, perhaps, there he stopped thinking. Cold beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. I think I hear them now, sir, said the lamb, and stood back respectfully to let him pass out of the door. Carlotta stayed in the room during the consultation. No one seemed to wonder why she was there, or to pay any attention to her. The staff was stricken. They moved back to make room for Dr. Ed beside the bed, and then closed in again. Carlotta waited her hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Surely they would operate. They wouldn't let him die like that. When she saw the phalanx break up and realized they would not operate, she went mad. She stood against the door and accused them of cowardice, taunted them. Do you think he would let any of you die like that? She cried. Die like a hurt dog, and none of you to lift a hand. It was Pfeiffer who drew her out of the room and tried to talk reason and sanity to her. It's hopeless, he said. If there was a chance, we'd operate and you know it. The staff went hopelessly down the stairs to the smoking room and smoked. It was all they could do. The night assistant sent coffee down to them, and they drank it. Dr. Ed stayed in his brother's room and said to his mother under his breath that he'd tried to do his best by max, and from now on it would be up to her. Kay had brought the injured man in. The country doctor had come to, finding Tilly's trial not imminent. On the way in, he had taken it for granted that Kay was a medical man, like himself, and had placed his hypodermic case at his disposal. When he missed him in the smoking room that was, he asked for him. I don't see the chap who came in with us, he said. Clever fellow, like to know his name. The staff did not know. Kay sat alone on a bench in the hall. He wondered who would tell Sydney. He hoped they would be very gentle with her. He sat in the shadow, waiting. He did not want to go home and leave her to what she might have to face. There was a chance she would ask for him. He wanted to be nearer, in that case. He sat in the shadow on the bench. The night watchman went by twice and stared at him. At last he asked Kay to mind the door until he got some coffee. One of the staff's been hurt, he explained. If I don't get some coffee now, I won't get any. Kay promised to watch the door. A desperate thing had occurred to Carlotta. Somehow she had not thought of it before. Now she wondered how she could have failed to think of it. If only she could find him and he would do it. She would go down on her knees, would tell him everything, if only he would consent. When she found him on his bench, however, she passed him by. She had a terrible fear that he might go away if she put the thing to him first. He clung hard to his new identity. So first she went to the staff and confronted them. They were men of courage, only declining to undertake what they considered hopeless work. The one man among them who might have done the thing with any chance of success lay stricken. Not one among them, but would have given of his best. Only his best was not good enough. It would be the Edwards operation, wouldn't it? demanded Carlotta. The staff was bewildered. There were no rules to cover such conduct on the part of a nurse. One of them, Pfeiffer again by chance, replied rather heavily, if any, it would be the Edwards operation. Would Dr. Edwards himself be able to do anything? This was going a little far. Possibly, one chance in a thousand perhaps. But Edwards is dead. How did this thing happen, Ms. Harrison? She ignored his question. Her face was ghastly, save for the trace of rouge. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Dr. Edwards is sitting on a bench in the hall outside, she announced. Her voice rang out. Kay heard her and raised his head. His attitude was weary, resigned. The thing had come then. He was to take up the old burden, the girl had told. Dr. Ed had sent for Sydney. Max was still unconscious. Ed remembered about her when tracing his brother's career from his babyhood to man's estate and to what seemed now to be its ending. He had remembered that Max was very fond of Sydney. He had hoped that Sydney would take him and do for him what he had failed to do. So Sydney was summoned. She thought it was another operation and her spirit was just a little weary. But her courage was indomitable. She forced her shoes on her tired feet and bathed her face in cold water to rouse herself. The night watchman was in the hall. He was so fond of Sydney. She always smiled at him and on his morning rounds at six o'clock to awaken the nurses. Her voice was always amiable. So she found him in the hall holding a cup of tepid coffee. He was old and blurry and unmistakably dirty too. But he had divine Sydney's romance. Coffee for me, she was astonished. Drink it. You haven't had much sleep. She took it obediently. But over the cup her eyes searched his. There is something wrong, Daddy. That was his name among the nurses. He had had another name. But it was lost in the mists of years. Get it down. So she finished it, not without anxiety that she might be needed. But Daddy's attentions were for few and not to be lightly received. Can you stand a piece of bad news? Strangely, her first thought was of Kay. There has been an accident. Dr. Wilson, which one? Dr. Max has been hurt. It ain't much, but I guess you'd like to know it. Where is he? Downstairs in 17. So she went down alone to the room where Dr. Ed sat in a chair, with his untidy bag beside him on the floor, and his eyes fixed on a straight figure on the bed. When he saw Sydney, he got up and put his arms around her. His eyes told her the truth before he told her anything. She hardly listened to what he said. The fact was, all that concerned her, that her lover was dying there, so near that she could touch him with her hand, so far away that no voice, no caress of hers, could reach him. The why would come later. Now, she could only stand with Dr. Ed's arms about her and wait. If they would only do something, Sydney's voice sounded strange to her ears. There is nothing to do. But that, it seemed, was wrong, for suddenly, Sydney's small world, which had always sedately revolved in one direction, began to move the other way. The door opened and the staff came in. But where before they had moved heavily, with drooped heads now, they came quickly, as men with a purpose. There was a tall man in a white coat with them. He ordered them about, like children, and they hastened to do his will. At first, Sydney only knew that now, at last, they were going to do something. The tall man was going to do something. He stood with his back to Sydney and gave orders. The heaviness of inactivity lifted. The room buzzed. The nurses stood by while the staff did nurses work. The senior surgical intern, essaying assistants, was shoved aside by the senior surgical consultant and stood by, aggrieved. It was the lamb, after all, who brought the news to Sydney. The new activity had caught Dr. Ed, and she was alone now. Her face buried against the back of a chair. There will be something doing now, this page he offered. What are they going to do? Going after the bullet. Do you know who's going to do it? His voice echoed the subdued excitement of the room, excitement and new hope. Did you ever hear of Edwards the surgeon, the Edwards operation, you know? Well, he's here. It sounds like a miracle. They found him sitting on a bench in the hall downstairs. Sydney raised her head, but she could not see the miraculously found Edwards. She could see the familiar faces of the staff and that other face on the pillow, and she gave a little cry. There was Kay. How like him to be there, to be wherever anyone was in trouble. Tears came to her, her eyes, the first tears she had shed. As if her eyes had called him, he looked up and saw her. He came toward her at once. The staff stood back to let him pass and gazed after him. The wonder of what had happened was growing on them. Kay stood beside Sydney and looked down at her. Just at first it seemed, as if he found nothing to say. Then, there's just a chance, Sydney, dear. Don't count too much on it. I have got to count on it. If I don't, I shall die. If a shadow passed over his face, no one saw it. I'll not ask you to go back to your room. If you will wait somewhere nearer, I'll see that you have immediate word. I am going to the operating room. Not to the operating room. Somewhere nearer. His steady voice controlled her hysteria, but she resented it. She was not herself, of course, but with strain and weariness. I shall ask Dr. Edwards. He was puzzled for a moment. Then he understood. After all, it was as well. Whether she knew him as Lemoine or as Edwards mattered very little after all. The thing that really mattered was that he must try to save Wilson for her. If he failed, it ran through his mind, that if he failed, she might hate him for the rest of her life, not for himself, but for his failure, that whichever ways thanks when he must lose. Dr. Edwards says you're to stay away from the operation, but to remain near. He, he promised to call you if things go wrong. She had to be content with that. Nothing about that night was real to Sydney. She sat in the anesthetizing room, and after a time she knew that she was not alone. There was somebody else. She realized Dolly, that Carlotta was there, too, pacing up and down the little room. She was never sure, for instance, whether she imagined it or whether Carlotta really stopped before her and surveyed her with burning eyes. So you thought he was going to marry you, said Carlotta, or the dream. Well, you see, he isn't. Sydney tried to answer and failed, or that was the way the dream went. If you had enough character, I think you did it. How do I know you didn't follow us and shoot him as he left the room? It must have been reality, after all, for Sydney's numbed mind grashed the essential fact here and held on to it. He had been out with Carlotta. He had promised, sworn, that this should not happen. It had happened. It surprised her. It seemed as if nothing more could hurt her. In the movement to and from the operating room, the door stood open for a moment. A tall figure, how much it looked like Kay, straightened and held out something in its hand. The bullet said Carlotta in a whisper, then more waiting, a stirrer of movement in the room beyond the closed door. Carlotta was standing, her face buried in her hands against the door. Sydney suddenly felt sorry for her. She cared a great deal. It must be tragic to care like that. She herself was not caring much. She was too numb. Beyond, across the courtyard, was the stable. Before the day of the motor ambulances, horses had waited there for their summons, eager as fire horses, heads lifted to the gong. When Sydney saw the outline of the stable roof, she knew that it was dawn. The city still slept, but the torturing night was over. And in the gray dawn, the staff, looking gray too and elderly and weary, came out through the closed door and took their hushed way to the elevator. They were talking among themselves. Sydney, straining her ears, gathered that they had seen a miracle and that the wonder was still on them. Carlotta followed them out. Almost on their heels came Kay. He was in the white coat. And more and more, he looked like the man who had raised up from his work and held out something in his hand. Sydney's head was aching and confused. She sat there in her chair, looking small and childish. The dawn was morning now, horizontal rays of sunlight on the stable roof and across the window sill of the anesthetizing room where a row of bottles sat on a clean towel. The tall man, or was it Kay, looked at her and then reached up and turned off the electric light. Why, it was Kay, of course, and he was putting out the whole light before he went upstairs. When the light was out, everything was gray. She could not see. She slid very quietly out of her chair and lay at his feet in a dead faint. Kay carried her to the elevator. He held her as he had held her that day at the park when she fell in the river very carefully, tenderly, as one holds something infinitely precious. Not until he had placed her on her bed did she open her eyes. But she was conscious before that. She was so tired and to be carried like that in strong arms, not knowing where one was going or carrying. The nurse he had summoned hustled out for aromatic ammonia. Sydney, lying among her pillows, looked up at Kay. How is he? A little better. There is a chance, dear. I had 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. Edwards. 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 Edwards and a fact the nurse herself was willing to vouch for. And that thrilled the training school to the core. That this very Edwards, newly risen as it were, and being a miracle himself as well as performing one, this very Edwards, carrying Sydney to her bed and putting her down, had kissed her on her white forehead. The training school doubted this. How could he know Sydney page? And after all, the nurse had only seen it in the mirror, being occupied at the time of 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 Kay that savored of the marvelous. His faith in himself was coming back, not strongly with a rush, but with all humility. He had been loathed 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, Sydney held out her hand to him. What should I do without you, Kay? 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 business-like way to distract her attention from it. How very many things you know. You were 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. Would 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 has he rose from the chair beside her low bed? She put out her hand to him. Kay. 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, Kay? He had so many friends and no enemies that I knew of. Her mind seemed to stagger about in a circle, making little exclusions, 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's 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 Kay making an arbitrary ruling and Sidney looking up at him mutinously. Miss Page is not to go on duty today. She is to stay in bed until further orders. Very well, Dr. Edwards. The confusion in Sidney's mind cleared away suddenly. Kay was Dr. Edwards. It was Kay who had performed the miracle operation. Kay, who had dared and perhaps won. Dear Kay, 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 Kay, 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. Kay left her at last and went back to 17, 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 Bette Noire 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 a check for his graduating suit. When Kay came in, he had the odd 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 a zone 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. End of chapter 25. Chapter 26 of Kay. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maria Fatima da Silva. Kay by Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 26. Max had rallied well and things looked right for him. His patient did not need him. But Kay 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, Kay did not believe in the innocence of the excursion to sweaters. His spirit was heavy with the conviction that he had saved Wilson to make Sydney ultimately wretched. For the present, at least, Kay'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 Wilson's 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 Sydney had been the talk of the neighborhood. If the boy disappeared, a scandal would be inevitable. Twenty people had seen him at sweaters and would know him again. To save Joe then was Kay's first care. At first it seemed as if the boy had frustrated him. He had not been home all night. Christine, way laying Kay 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 worry. I feel sure she will hear from him today. 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 sweaters the high road 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 Kay would not formulate his fear of what might have happened even to himself. As he went down the street he saw Mrs. McKee in her doorway with a little knot of people around her. The street was getting the night's news. He rented a car at a local garage and drove himself out into the country. He was not minded to have any eyes on him that day. He went to sweater's first. Sweater himself was not in sight. Bill was scrubbing the porch and the farm hand was gathering bottles from the grass into a box. The dead lantern swung in the morning air and from back on the hill came the staccato sounds of a reaping machine. Where's Sweater? At the barn with the Mrs. got a boy back there. Bill grinned. He recognized Kay and mopping dry a part of the porch, shoved a chair on it. Sit down. Well how's the man who got his last night? Dead? No. County detectives were here bright and early. After the lady's husband, I guess we lose our license over this. What does Sweater say? Oh him. Bill Stone was full of disgust. He hopes we do. He hates the place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That's what this house is. Money. Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night? A sort of haze came over Bill's face as if he had dropped a curtain before his eyes. But his reply came promptly. Shortest thing in the world, close to him as you are to me. Dark man, about 30, small mustache. Bill, you're lying and I know it. Where is he? The barkeeper kept his head but his color changed. I don't know anything about him. He thrust his mop into the pail. Kay rose. Does Sweater know? He doesn't know nothing. He's been out at the barn all night. The farmhand had filled his box and disappeared around the corner of the house. Kay put his hand on Bill's shirt-sleeved arm. We've got to get him away from here, Bill. Get who away? You know, the county men may come back to search the premises. How do I know you aren't one of them? I guess you know I'm not. He's a friend of mine. As a matter of fact, I followed him here. But I was too late. Did he take the revolver away with him? I took it from him. It's under the bar. Get it for me. In sheer relief, Kay spirits rose. After all, it was a good world. Tilly with her baby in her arms. Wilson conscious and rallying. Joe safe and without the revolver. Secure from his own remorse. Other things there were, too, the feel of Sydney's inert body in his arms, the way she had turned to him in trouble. It was not what he wanted this last, but it was worthwhile. The reapy machine was in sight now. It had stopped on the hillside. The men were drinking out of a bucket that flashed in the sun. There was one thing wrong. What had come over Wilson to do so reckless a thing? Kay, who was a one woman man, could not explain it. From inside the bar, Bill took a careful survey of Le Moyne. He noted his tall figure shabby suit, the slight stoop, the hair graying over his ears. Bar keepers know men that's a part of the job. After his survey, he went behind the bar and got the revolver from under an overturned pail. Kay thrust it into his pocket. Now he said quietly, Where is he? In my room, top of the house. Kay followed Bill up the stairs. He remembered the day when he had sat waiting in the parlor and had heard Tilly's slow step coming down. And last night he himself had carried down Wilson's unconscious figure. Surely the wages of sin were wretchedness and misery. None of it paid. No one got away with it. The room under the eaves was stifling. An unmade bed stood in a corner from nails in the rafters hung Bill's holiday wardrobe. A tin cup and a cracked pitcher of spring water stood on the windowsill. Joe was sitting in the corner furthest from the window. When the door swung open, he looked up. He showed no interest on seeing Kay, who had to stoop to enter the low room. Hello, Joe. I thought you were the police. Not much. Open that window, Bill. This place is stifling. Is he dead? No, indeed. I wish I'd killed him. Oh, no, you don't. You're damn glad you didn't. And so am I. What will they do with me? Nothing until they find you. I came to talk about that. They'd better not find you. It's easier than it sounds. Kay sat down on the bed. If I only had some money, he said, but never mind about that, Joe. I'll get some. Loud calls from below took Bill out of the room. As he closed the door behind him, Kay's voice took on a new tone. Joe, why did you do it? You know, you saw him with somebody at the White Springs and followed them. Yes. Do you know who was with him? Yes. And so do you. Don't go into that. I did it, and I'll stand by it. Has it occurred to you that you made a mistake? Go and tell that to somebody who'll believe you. He sneered. They came here and took a room. I met him coming out of it. I'd do it again if I had a chance and do it better. It was not Sydney. Oh, chuck it. It's a fact. I got here not two minutes after you left. The girl was still there. It was someone else. Sydney was not out of the hospital last night. She attended a lecture and then an operation. Joe listened. It was undoubtedly a relief to him to know that it had not been Sydney. But if Kay expected any remorse, he did not get it. If he is that sort, he deserves what he got, said the boy grimly. And Kay had no reply. But Joe was glad to talk. The hours he had spent alone in the little room had been very bitter and preceded by a time that he should have to remember. Kay got it by degrees. His descent of the staircase, leaving Wilson lying on the landing above. His resolve to walk back and surrender himself at Schwitter's so that there could be no mistake as to who had committed the crime. I intended to write a confession and then shoot myself, he told Kay. But the barkeeper got my gun out of my pocket. And after a pause, does she know who did it? Sydney? No. Then if he gets better, she'll marry him anyhow. Possibly. That's not up to us, Joe. The thing we've got to do is to hush the thing up and get you away. I'd go to Cuba, but I haven't the money. Kay Rose, I think I can get it. He turned in the doorway. Sydney need never know who did it. I'm not ashamed of it, but his face showed relief. There are times when some cataclysm tears down the walls of reserve between men. That time had come for Joe, and to a less extent for Kay. The boy rose and followed him to the door. Why don't you tell her the whole thing? The whole filthy story, he asked. She'd never look at him again. You're crazy about her. I haven't got a chance. It would give you one. I want her God knows, said Kay, but not that way, boy. Shweta had taken in $500 the previous day. 500 gross, the little man hastened to explain, but you're right, Mr. Lemoine, and I guess it would please her. It's going hard with her just now that she hasn't any women friends about. It's in the safe in cash. I haven't had time to take it to the bank. He seemed to apologize to himself for the unbusiness like proceeding of lending an entire day's gross receipts on no security. It's better to get him away, of course. It's good business. I have tried to have an orderly place. If they arrest him here, his voice trailed off. He had come a far away from the day he had walked down the street and I did spotless with appraising eyes a far way. Now he had a son and the child's mother looked at him with tragic eyes. It was arranged that Kay should go back to town, returning late that night to pick up Joe at a lonely point on the road and to drive him to a railroad station. But as it happened, he went back that afternoon. He had told Shweta he would be at the hospital and the message found him there. Wilson was holding his own, conscious now and making a hard fight. The message from Shweta was very brief. Something has happened until he wants you. I don't like to trouble you again, but she wants you. Kay was rather grayer faced by that time, having had no sleep and little food since the day before. But he got into the rented machine again. Its rental was running up. He tried to forget it and turned it toward hill foot. But first of all, he drove back to the street and walked without ringing into Mrs. McKee's. Neither a year's time nor Mrs. McKee's approaching change of state had altered the milling house. The ticket punch still lay on the hat rack in the hall. Through the rusty screen of the back parlor window, one viewed the spirea still in need of spraying. Mrs. McKee herself was in the pantry, placing one slice of tomato and three small lettuce leaves on each of an interminable succession of plates. Kay, who was privileged, walked back. I've got a car at the door, he announced, and there's nothing so extravagant as an empty seat in an automobile. Will you take a ride? Mrs. McKee agreed. Being of the class who believed a boudoir cap, the ideal headdress for a motor car, she apologized for having none. If I'd known you were coming, I would have borrowed a cap, she said. This trip, third floor front, has a nice one. If you'll take me in my toke. Kay said he'd take her in her toke and waited with some anxiety, having not the faintest idea what a toke was. He was not without other anxieties. What if the sight of Tillie's baby did not do all that he expected? Good women could be most cruel. A schwitter had been very vague, but he, a Kay, was more sure of himself. The little man's voice had expressed as exactly as words the sense of a bereavement that was not a grief. He was counting on Mrs. McKee's old fondness for the girl to bring them together. But as they neared the house with its lanterns and tables, its whitewashed stones outlining the drive, its small upper window behind which Joe was waiting for a night, his heart failed him rather. He had a masculine dislike for meddling, and yet Mrs. McKee had suddenly seen the name in the wooden arch over the gate, schwitters. I'm not going in there, Mr. Lemoine. Tillie's not in the house, she's back in the barn. In the barn? She didn't approve of all that went on there, so she moved out. It's very comfortable and clean. It smells of hay. You'd be surprised how nice it is. The like of her snorted Mrs. McKee. She's late with her conscience, I'm thinking. Last night Kay remarked hands on the wheel, but car stopped. She had a child there. It's rather like very old times, isn't it? A man-child, Mrs. McKee. Not in a manger, of course. What do you want me to do, Mrs. McKee Stone, which had been fierce at the beginning and did feebly? I want you to go in and visit her as you would any woman who'd had a new baby and needed a friend. Lie a little, Mrs. McKee gasped. Tell her the baby's pretty. Tell her you've been wanting to see her. His stone was suddenly stern. Lie a little, for your soul's sake. She waved it, and while she waved it, he drove her in under the arch with his shameful name and back to the barn. But there he had attacked to remain in the car, Mrs. McKee's piece, with till he was made alone. When five minutes later she beckoned him from the door of the barn, her eyes were red. Come in, Mr. Kay, she said. The wife's dead, poor thing. They're going to be married right away. The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. Kay entered the barn. At the door to tell his room, he uncovered his head. The child was asleep at her breast. The $5,000 check from Mr. Lorenz had saved Palmer House credit. On the strength of the deposit, he borrowed a thousand at the bank with which he meant to pay his bills. A rears at the university and country clubs, $100 lost throwing aces with polka dice and various small obligations of Christians. The immediate result of the money was good. He drank nothing for a week, went into the details of the new venture with Christine's father, sat at home with Christine on her balcony in the evenings. With the knowledge that he could pay his debts, he postponed the day. He liked the feeling of a bank account in four figures. The first evening or two, Christine's pledge in having him there gratified him. He felt kind, magnanimous, almost virtuous. On the third evening, he was restless. It occurred to him that his wife was beginning to take his presence as a matter of course. He wanted cold bottled beer. When he found that the ice was out and the beer warm and flat, he was furious. Christine had been making a fight, although her heart was only half in it. She was resolutely good-humoured, ignored the past, dressed for Palmer in the things he liked. They still took their dinners at the Lorenz house of the street. When she saw that the half-father table service there irritated him, she coaxed her mother into getting a butler. The street sniffed at the butler behind his stately back. Secretly and in its heart, it was proud of him. With a half-dozen automobile and Christine Howe putting on low neck in the evenings and now a butler not to mention Harriet Kennedy's meme, it ceased to pride itself on its common placeness, ignorant of the fact that in its very lack of effectation had lain its charm. On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He had seen Grace Iving that day for the first time, but once since the motor accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past few months had not included women. The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified the care three days before his marriage. Perhaps the attraction was deeper, fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson was shot. The sight of her walking saddedly along in her shop girl's black dress had been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that she meant to pass him, he fell into step beside her. I believe you were going to cut me. I was in a hurry. Still in the store? Yes. And after a second's hesitation, I'm keeping straight too. How are you getting along? Pretty well. I've had my salary raised. Do you have to walk as fast as this? I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I, he eyed her suspiciously. Early? What for? I go to the hospital. The Rosenfeld boy is still there, you know. Oh, but a moment later he burst out irritably. That was an accident, Grace. The boy took the chance when he engaged to drive the car. I'm sorry, of course. I dream of the little devil sometimes lying there. I'll tell you what I'll do. He added magnanimously. I'll stop in and talk to Wilson. He ought to have done something before this. The boy's not strong enough yet. I don't think you can do anything for him unless the monstrous injustice of the thing overcame her. Palmer and she walking about and the boy lying on his hotbed. She choked. Well, he worries about his mother. If you could give her some money, it would help. Money, good heavens, I owe everybody. You owe him too, don't you? He'll never walk again. I can't give them ten dollars. I don't see that I'm under any obligation anyhow. I paid his board for two months in the hospital. When she did not acknowledge this generosity amounting to 48 dollars, his irritation grew. Her silence was an accusation. Her manner gold him into the bargain. She was too calm in his presence, too cold. Where she had once palpitated visibly under his warm gaze, she was now self possessed and quiet. When it had pleased his pride to think that he had given her up, he found that the shoe was on the other foot. At the entrance to a side street, she stopped. I turn off here. May I come and see you sometime? No, please. That's flat, is it? It is Palmer. He swung around savagely and left her. The next day he drew the thousand dollars from the bank. A good many of his debts he wanted to pay in cash. There was no use putting checks through with incriminating endorsements. Also, he liked the idea of carrying a roll of money around. The big fellows at the clubs always had a wad and peeled off bills like skin off an onion. He took a couple of drinks to celebrate his approaching immunity from debt. He played auction bridge that afternoon in a private room at one of the hotels with the three men he had lunched with. Luck seemed to be with him. He won $80 and thrust it loose in his trousers pocket. Money seemed to bring money. If he could carry the thousand around for a day or so, something pretty good might come of it. He had been drinking a little all afternoon. When the game was over, he bought drinks to celebrate his victory. The losers treated two to show they were no pikers. Palmer was in high spirits. He offered to put up the 80 and throw for it. The losers mentioned dinner and various engagements. Palmer did not want to go home. Christine would greet him with raised eyebrows. They would eat a stuffy, Lorenz dinner and in the evening, Christine would sit in the lamp light and drive him out with soft music. He wanted lights, noise, the smiles of women. Luck was with him and he wanted to be happy. At nine o'clock that night, he found grace. She had moved to a cheap apartment which she shared with two other girls from the store. The others were out. It was his lucky day, surely. His drunkenness was of the mind mostly. His muscles were well controlled. The lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth were slightly accentuated. His eyes opened a trifle wider than usual. That and the slight paleness of the nostrils were the only evidences of his condition. But grace knew the signs. You can't come in. Of course I'm coming in. She retreated before him, her eyes watchful. Men in his condition were up to be as quick with the blow as with the caress. But having gained his point, he was amiable. Get your things on and come out. We can take in a roof garden. I've told you I'm not doing that sort of thing. He was ugly in a flash. You've got somebody else on the string. Honestly, no, there, there has never been anybody else, Palmer. He caught us suddenly and jerked out toward him. You let me hear of anybody else and I'll cut the guts out of him. He held her for a second, his face black and fierce. Then slowly and inevitably he drew her into his arms. He was drunk and she knew it. But in the queer loyalty of her class, he was the only man she had cared for. She cared now. She took him for that moment, felt his hot kisses on her mouth, her throat submitted while his rather brutal hands bruised her arms in fierce caresses. Then she put him from her resolutely. Now you're going, the hell I'm going. But he was less steady than he had been. The heat of the little flat brought more blood to his head. He wavered as he stood just inside the door. You must go back to your wife. She doesn't want me. She's in love with a fellow at the house. Palmer hush. Let me come in and sit down, won't you? She let him pass her into the sitting room. He dropped into a chair. You've turned me down and now Christine, she thinks I don't know. I'm no fool. I see a lot of things. I'm no good. I know that I've made her miserable. But I made a merry little hell for you too. And you don't kick about it. You know that. She was watching him gravely. She had never seen him just like this. Nothing else perhaps could have shown her so well what a broken reed he was. I got you in wrong. You were a good girl before I knew you. You're a good girl now. I'm not going to do you any harm. I swear it. I only wanted to take you out for a good time. I've got money. Look here. He drew out the roll of bills and showed it to her. Her eyes opened wide. She had never known him to have much money. Lots more where that comes from. A new look flashed into her eyes, not cupidity but purpose. She was instantly cunning. Aren't you going to give me some of that? What for? I want some clothes. The very drunk have the intuition sometimes of savages or brute beasts. You lie. I want it for Johnny Rosenfeld. He thrust it back into his pocket but his hand retained its grasp of it. That's it, he complained. Don't let me be happy for a minute. Throw it all up to me. You give me that for the Rosenfeld boy and I'll go out with you. If I give you all that, I won't have any money to go out with. But his eyes were wavering. She could see victory. Take off enough for the evening. But he drew himself up. I'm no pike, he said largely. Whole hog or nothing. Take it. He held it out to her and from another pocket produced the 80 dollars in crushed and wrinkled notes. It's my lucky day, he said thickly. Plenty more where this came from. Do anything for you. Give it to the little devil. I, he owned God this place is hot. His head dropped back on his chair. He propped his sagging legs on the stool. She knew him knew that he would sleep almost all night. She would have to make up something to tell the other girls. But no matter she could attend to that later. She had never had a thousand dollars in her hands before. It seems smaller than that amount. Perhaps he had lied to her. She paused in pinning on her hat to count the bills. It was all there. End of chapter 26. Chapter 27 of K. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maria Fatima the Silver. K by Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 27. K spent all of the evening of that day with Wilson. He was not to go for Joe until 11 o'clock. The injured man's vitality was standing him in good stead. He had asked for Sydney and she was at his bedside. Dr. Ed had gone. I'm going, Max. The office is full. They tell me, he said, bending over the bed. I'll come in later. And if they'll make me a shake down, I'll stay with you tonight. The answer was faint, broken, but distinct. Get some sleep. I've been a poor stick. Try to do better. His roving eyes fell on the dog collar on the stand. He smiled. Good ol' Bob, he said, and put his hand over Dr. Ed's as it lay on the bed. K found Sydney in the room not sitting but standing by the window. The sick man was dozing. One shaded light burned in a far corner. She turned slowly and met his eyes. It seemed to K that she looked at him as if she had never really seen him before. And he was right. Readjustments are always difficult. Sydney was trying to reconcile the K she had known so well with this new K. No longer obscure, although still shabby, whose height had suddenly become presence, whose quiet was the quiet of infinite power. She was suddenly shy of him as he stood looking down at her. He saw the gleam of her engagement ring on her finger. It seemed almost defiant, as though she had meant by wearing it to emphasize her belief in her lover. They did not speak beyond their greeting until he had gone over the record. Then, we can't talk here. I want to talk to you, K. He led the way into the corridor. It was very dim. Far away was the night nurse's desk with its slump, its annunciator, its spile of records. The passage floor reflected the light on glistening boards. I have been thinking until I am almost crazy, K. And now I know how it happened. It was Joe. The principal thing is not how it happened, but that he is going to get well, Sydney. She stood looking down, twisting her ring around her finger. Is Joe in any danger? We are going to get him away tonight. He wants to go to Cuba. He'll get off safely, I think. We are going to get him away? You are, you mean. You shoulder all our troubles, K., as if they were your own. I? He was genuinely surprised. Oh, I see. You mean, but my part in getting Joe off is practically nothing. As a matter of fact, Schwitter has put up the money. My total capital in the world after paying the taxi cab today is $7. The taxi cab, by Joe, I was forgetting. Best news you ever heard of. Tilly married and has a baby, all in 24 hours. Boy, they named it Lemoine, squalled like a maniac when the water went on its head. I took Mrs. McKee out in a hired machine. That's what happened to my capital. He grinned sheepishly. She said she would have to go in her toke. I had awful qualms. I thought it was a wrapper. You, of course, she said, you find Max and save him. Don't look like that. You did, didn't you? And you get Joe away borrowing money to send him. And as if that isn't enough, when you want to have been getting some sleep, you are out taking a friend to Tilly and being Godfather to the baby. He looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. I had a day off. I? When I look back and remember how old these months I've been talking about service and you said nothing at all. And all the time you were living what I preached. I'm so ashamed, Kay. He would not allow that. It distressed him. She saw that and tried to smile. When does Joe go? Tonight. I'm to take him across a country to the railroad. I was wondering. Yes. I bet explain first what happened and why it happened. Then if you are willing to send him a line, I think it would help. He saw a girl in white in the car and followed in his own machine. He thought it was you, of course. He didn't like the idea of your going to Schwitter's. Carlotta was taken ill. And Schwitter and Wilson took her obsessed to a room. Do you believe that, Kay? I do. He saw Max coming out and misunderstood. He fired at him then. He did it for me. I feel very guilty, Kay, as if it all comes back to me. All right to him, of course. Poor Joe. He watched her go down the hall toward the night nurses desk. He would have given everything to stand for the right to call her back to take her in his arms and comfort her. She seemed so alone. He himself had gone through loneliness and heartache and the shadow was still on him. He waited until he saw her sit down at the desk and take up a pen. Then he went back into the quiet room. He stood by the bedside looking down. Wilson was breathing quietly. His color was coming up as he rallied from the shock. In Kay's mind now was just one thought, to bring him through for Sydney and then to go away. He might follow Joe to Cuba. There were chances there he could do sanitation work or he might try the canal. The street would go on working out its own salvation. He would have to think of something for the Rosenfelds. And he was worried about Christine. But there again perhaps it would be better if he went away. Christine's story would have to work itself out. His hands were tied. He was glad in a way that Sydney had asked no questions about him, had accepted his new identity so calmly. It had been overshadowed by the night tragedy. It would have pleased him if she had shown more interest, of course. But he understood it was enough, he told himself, that he had helped her, that she counted on him. But more and more he knew in his heart that it was not enough. I'd better get away from here, he told himself, savagely. And having taken the first step toward flight, as it happens in such cases, he was suddenly panicky with fear. Fear that he would get out of hand and take her in his arms whether or no. A temptation to run from temptation to cut everything and go with Joe that night. But there his sense of humor saved him. That would be a sight for the gods. Two defeated lovers flying together under the soft September moon. Someone entered the room. He thought it was Sydney and turned, with the light in his eyes that was only for her. It was Carlotta. She was not in uniform. She wore a dark skirt and white waist and her high heels tapped as she crossed the room. She came directly to him. He is better, isn't he? He is rallying, of course it will be a day or two before we are quite sure. She stood looking down at Wilson's quiet figure. I guess you know I've been crazy about him, she said quietly. Well, that's all over. He never really cared for me. I played his game and I lost. I've been expelled from the school. Quite suddenly she dropped on her knees beside the bed and put her cheek close to the sleepy man's hand. When after a moment she rose, she was controlled again, calm, very white. Will you tell him, Dr. Edwardis, when he is conscious that I came in and said goodbye? I will, of course. Do you want to leave any other message? She hesitated as if the thought tempted her. Then she shrugged her shoulders. What would be the use? He doesn't want any message from me. She turned toward the door, but Kaye could not let her go like that. Her face frightened him. It was too calm, too controlled. He followed her across the room. What are your plans? I haven't any. I'm about through with my training, but I've lost my diploma. I don't like to see you going away like this. She avoided his eyes, but his kindly tone did what neither the head, nor the executive committee had done that day. It shook her control. What does it matter to you? You don't owe me anything. Perhaps not, one way or another. I've known you a long time. You never knew anything very good. I'll tell you where I live, and I know where you live. Will you come to see me there? We may be able to think of something. What is there to think of? This story will follow me wherever I go. I've tried twice for a diploma and failed. What's the use? But in the end, he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the city until she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone a straight figure with haunted eyes that he reflected whimsically that once again he had defeated his own plans for flight. In the corridor outside the door, Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back? Why not tell him? He was kind. He was going to do something for her. But the old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to her room. Sydney brought her letter to Joe back to Kay. She was flushed with the effort and with a new excitement. This is the letter, Kay. And I haven't been able to say what I wanted exactly. You let him know, won't you? How I feel and how I blame myself. Kay promised gravely. And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been. Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wants you to come back. The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytime were chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot and an electric fan hummed in the far corner. Under its sporadic breezes as it turned, the ward was trying to sleep. Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened to him. Unfortunately, under his pillow. He was sure it was there. Forever since it came, his hot hand had clutched it. He was quite sure that somehow or other Kay had had a hand in it. When he disclaimed it, the boy was bewildered. It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house anyhow, he said. But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no charity. Maybe Mr. House sent it. You can bet your last match he didn't. In some unknown way, the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, Mr. Lamoine, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully. He works in the gas office, he said. I've seen him there. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office? If he's a surgeon, what's he doing teaching me roughier work? Why isn't he on his job? But the story had seized on his imagination. Say, Mr. Lamoine, yes, Jack? He called him Jack. The boy liked it. It's savor of man to man. After all, he was a man or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a state license? They've got a queer story about you in the ward. Not scandalized trust, Jack. They say that you're a surgeon, that you operated on Dr. Wilson and saved his life. They say that you're the kingpin where you came from. He eyed Kay Wisfully. I know it's a dumb lie, but if it's true, I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact, I operated on Dr. Wilson today. I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn't explain to you sooner. For various reasons, I gave up that line of business. Today, they rather force my hand. Don't you think you could do something for me, sir? When Kay did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation. I've been lying here a good while. I didn't say much because I knew I'd have to take a chance. Either I'd pull through or I wouldn't. And the odds were, well, I didn't say much. The old ladies had a lot of trouble. But now, with this under my pillow for her, I've got a right to ask. I'll take a chance, if you will. It's only a chance, Jack. I know that, but lie here and watch these soaks off the street, old a lot of them, and getting well to go out and starve. And, my God, Mr. Lemoine, they can walk, and I can't. Kay drew a long breath. He had started now he must go on. Faith in himself or no faith, he must go on. Life that had lost its hold on him for a time had found him again. I'll go over you carefully tomorrow, Jack. I'll tell you your chances, honestly. I have a thousand dollars, whatever you charge. I'll take it out of my board bill in the new house. At four o'clock that morning, Kay got back from seeing Joe off. The trip had been without accident. Over Sydney's letter, Joe had shared a shame-faced tear or two. And during the night ride, with Kay pushing the car to the utmost, he had felt that the boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray white line into the night, he tried to talk a little courage into the boy's sick heart. You'll see new people, new life, he said. In a month from now, you'll wonder why you ever hung around the street. I have a feeling that you're going to make good down there. And once, when the time for parting was very near. No matter what happens, keep on believing in yourself. I lost my faith in myself once. It was pretty close to hell. Joe's response showed his entire self engrossment. If he dies, I'm a murderer. He's not going to die, said Kay, stoutly. At four o'clock in the morning, he left the garage and walked around to the little house. He had had no sleep for 45 hours. His eyes were sunken in his head. The skin over his temples looked drawn and white. His clothes were wrinkled. The soft hat he habitually wore was white with the dust of the road. As he opened the whole door, Christine stood in the room beyond. She came out fully dressed. Kay, are you sick? Rather tired. Why in the world aren't you in bed? Palmer has just come home in the terrible rage. He says he's been robbed of a thousand dollars. Where? Christine shrugged her shoulders. He doesn't know or says he doesn't. I'm glad of it. He seems thoroughly frightened. It may be a lesson. In the dim hall light, he realized that her face was drained and set. She looked on the verge of hysteria. Poor little woman, he said. I'm sorry, Christine. The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control. Okay, take me away. Take me away. I can't stand it any longer. She held her arms out to him and because he was very tired and lonely and because more than anything else in the world, just then he needed a woman's arms. He drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to her hair. Poor girl, he said. Poor Christine. Surely there must be some happiness for us somewhere. But the next moment he let her go and stepped back. I'm sorry. Characteristically, he took the blame. I shouldn't have done that. You know how it is with me. Will it always be Sydney? I'm afraid it will always be Sydney. End of chapter 27. Chapter 28 of K. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. K. by Mary Roberts Reinhart. Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K's skill had not suffice to save him. The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long sapped strength failed at the last. K said of face stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Lemoine. I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot, he said. Look and see. K lifted the light covering. You're right, old man. It's moving. Breakfoot, clutch foot, said Johnny, and closed his eyes again. K had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion nor had the boy. The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again, he did not open his eyes. You're some operator, Mr. Lemoine. I'll put in a word for you whenever I get a chance. Yes, put in a word for me, said K huskily. He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator, that whatever he, K, had done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the tribunal would count. The lame young violin player came into the ward. She had cherished a secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and played the holy city. Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very comfortable. Tell her nicks on the sob stuff, he complained. Ask her to play, I'm 21 and she's 18. She was rather outraged, but on K's quick explanation she changed to the staccato air. Ask her if she'll come a little nearer. I can't hear her. So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny began his long sleep. But first he asked K a question. Are you sure I'm going to walk, Mr. Lemoine? I give you my solemn word, said K huskily, that you are going to be better than you have ever been in your life. It was K who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be set around the bed. K who drew the covering smooth and folded the boy's hands over his breast. The violin player stood by uncertainly. How very young he is. Was it an accident? It was the result of a man's damnable folly, said K grimly. Somebody always pays. And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid. The immediate result of his death was that K, who had gained some of his faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself against powers of life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged for it. The old doubts came back. And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would be out of commission for several months probably. He was gaining, but slowly. And he wanted K to take over his work. Why not, he demanded half irritably. The secret is out. Everybody knows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to that ridiculous gas office, are you? I had some thought of going to Cuba. I'm damned if I understand you. You've done a marvelous thing. I lie here and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of your name. And now, because a boy who wouldn't have lived anyhow. That's not it, K put in hastily. I know all that. I guess I could do it and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me. I've never told you, have I, why I gave up before. Wilson was propped up in his bed. K was walking restlessly about the room, as was his habit, when troubled. I've heard the gossip, that's all. When you recognized me that night on the balcony, I told you I'd lost my faith in myself. And you said the whole affair had been gone over at the state society. As a matter of fact, the society knew of only two cases. There had been three. Even at that, you know what I always felt about the profession, Max. We went into that more than once in Berlin. Either one's best or nothing. I had done pretty well. When I left Lurch and built my own hospital, I hadn't a doubt of myself. And because I was getting results, I got a lot of advertising. Men began coming to the clinics. I found I was making enough out of the patients who could pay to add a few free wards. I want to tell you now, Wilson, that the opening of those free wards was the greatest self-indulgence I ever permitted myself. I'd seen so much careless attention given the poor. Well, never mind that. It was almost three years ago that things began to go wrong. I lost a big case. I know. All this doesn't influence me, Edwardis. Wait a moment. We had a system in the operating room as perfect as I could devise it. I never finished an operation without having my first assistant verify the clip and sponge count. But that first case died because a sponge had been left in the operating field. You know how those things go. You can't always see them. And one goes by the count after reasonable caution. Then I lost another case in the same way, a free case. As well as I could tell, the precautions had not been relaxed. I was doing from four to six cases a day. After the second one, I almost went crazy. I made up my mind if there was ever another I'd give up and go away. There was another? Not for several months. When the last case died, a free case again, I performed my own autopsy. I allowed only my first assistant in the room. He was almost as frenzied as I was. It was the same thing again. When I told him I was going away, he offered to take the blame himself to say he had closed the incision. He tried to make me think he was responsible. I knew better. It's incredible. Exactly. But it's true. The last patient was a laborer. He left a family. I've sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and think about the children he left and what would become of them. The ironic part of it was that for all that had happened, I was busier all the time. Men were sending me cases from all over the country. It was either stay and keep on working with that chance or quit. I quit. But if you had stayed and taken extra precautions, we'd taken every precaution we knew. Neither of the men spoke for a time. Kaye stood, his tall figure outlined against the window. Far off in the children's ward, children were laughing. From nearby, a very young baby wailed, a thin cry of protest against life. A bell rang constantly. Kaye's mind was busy with the past, with the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months of wandering and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the street and had seen Sydney on the doorstep of the little house. That's the worst, is it, Max Wilson demanded at last? That's enough. It's extremely significant. You had an enemy somewhere, on your staff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know it's jealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the pack is after him. He laughed a little. Mixed figure, but you know what I mean. Kaye shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, in every profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He would have trusted every one of them with his life. You're going to do it, of course. Take up your work? Yes. He stirred restlessly, to stay on, to be near Sydney, perhaps to stand by as Wilson's best man when he was married. It turned him cold. But he did not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growing fretful. It would not do to irritate him. Give me another day on it, he said at last. And so the matter stood. Max's injury had been productive of good in one way. It had brought the two brothers closer together. In the mornings, Max was restless until Dr. Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag, his beloved burns. Although he needed no book for that, the Pickwick papers, Reenan's Lives of the Disciples. Very often, Max would doze off at the cessation of Dr. Ed's sonorous voice. The sick man would stir fretfully and demand more. But because he listened to everything without discrimination, the older man came to the conclusion that it was the companionship that counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him of Max's boyhood when he had read to Max at night. For once in the last dozen years, he needed him. Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes, Max protested one day? Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold in his cheek, picked up his book in a hurry and eyed the invalid over it. Stop bullying. I'll read when I'm ready. Have you any idea what I'm reading? Of course. Well, I haven't. For ten minutes I've been reading across both pages. Max laughed and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affection were so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rather sheepishly, he took it. When I get out, Max said, we'll have to go out to the white springs again and have supper. That was all, but Ed understood. Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max's room. In the morning she only smiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him after prayers. She was allowed an hour with him then. The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when he began to recover, he tried to talk to her about it, but she refused to listen. She was very gentle with him, but very firm. I know how it happened, Max, she said, about Joe's mistake and all that. The rest can wait until you are much better. If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would not have submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever, unfailingly patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After a time, he began to dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectually to have closed it. Carlotta was gone. And after all, what good could he do his cause by pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it. On the day when Kay had told Max his reason for giving up his work, Max was allowed out of bed for the first time. It was a great day. A box of red roses came that day from the girl who had refused him a year or more ago. He viewed them with a carelessness that was half assumed. The news had traveled to the street that he was to get up that day. Early that morning, the doorkeeper had opened the door to a gentleman who did not speak, but who handed in a bunch of early chrysanthemums and proceeded to write on a pad he drew from his pocket. From Mrs. McGee's family and guests, with their congratulations on your recovery and their hope that they will see you again soon. If their ends are clipped every day and they are placed in ammonia water, they will last indefinitely. Sidney spent her hour with Max that evening as usual. His big chair had been drawn close to a window, and she found him there, looking out. She kissed him. But this time, instead of letting her draw away, he put out his arms and caught her to him. Are you glad? Very glad indeed, she said soberly. Then smile at me, you don't smile anymore. You ought to smile, your mouth. I'm almost always tired, that's all, Max. She eyed him bravely. Aren't you going to let me make love to you at all? You get away beyond my reach. I was looking for the paper to read to you. A sudden suspicion flamed in his eyes. Sidney, yes, dear. You don't like me to touch you anymore. Come here where I can see you. The fear of agitating him brought her quickly. For a moment he was appeased. That's more like it. How lovely you are, Sidney. He lifted first one hand and then the other to his lips. Are you ever going to forgive me? If you mean about Carlotta, I forgave that long ago. He was almost boyishly relieved. What a wonder she was, so lovely and so sane. Many a woman would have held that over him for years. Not that he had done anything really wrong on that nightmare excursion. But so many women are exigent about promises. When are you going to marry me? We needn't discuss that tonight, Max. I want you so very much. I don't want to wait, dear. Let me tell Ed that you will marry me soon. Then, when I go away, I'll take you with me. Can't we talk things over when you are stronger? Her tone caught his attention and turned him a little white. He faced her to the window so that the light fell full on her. What things? What do you mean? He had forced her hand. She had meant to wait, but with his keen eyes on her she could not assemble. I am going to make you very unhappy for a little while. Well, I've had a lot of time to think. If you had really wanted me, Max, my God, of course I want you. It isn't that I am angry. I am not even jealous. I was at first. It isn't that. It's hard to make you understand. I think you care for me. I love you. I swear I never loved any other woman as I love you. Suddenly he remembered that he had also sworn to put Carlotta out of his life. He knew that Sidney remembered too, but she gave no sign. Perhaps that's true. You might go on caring for me. Sometimes I think you would, but there would always be other women, Max. You're like that. Perhaps you can't help it. If you loved me, you could do anything with me. He was half sullen. By the way her color leaped. He knew he had struck fire. All his conjectures as to how Sidney would take the knowledge of his entanglement with Carlotta had been founded on one major premise, that she loved him. The mere suspicion made him gasp. But good heavens, Sidney, you do care for me, don't you? I'm afraid I don't, Max. Not enough. She tried to explain rather pitifully. After one look at his face she spoke to the window. I'm so wretched about it. I thought I cared. To me you were the best and greatest man that ever lived. When I said my prayers, but that doesn't matter. You are a sort of god to me. When the lamb, that's one of the interns you know, nicknamed you the little tin god I was angry. You could never be anything little to me or do anything that wasn't big. Do you see? He groaned under his breath. No man could live up to that, Sidney. No, I see that now. But that's the way I cared. Now I know that I didn't care for you, really at all. I built up an idol and worshipped it. I always saw you through a sort of haze. You were operating with everybody standing by saying how wonderful it was. Or you were coming to the wards and everything was excitement, getting ready for you. I blame myself terribly. But you see, don't you? It isn't that I think you are wicked. It's just that I never loved the real you because I never knew you. When he remained silent she made an attempt to justify herself. I've known very few men, she said. I came into the hospital and for a time life seemed very terrible. There were wickednesses I'd never heard of and somebody always paying for them. I was always asking why, why? Then you would come in and a lot of them you cured and sent out. You gave them their chance, don't you see? Until I knew about Carlotta you always meant that to me. You were like Kay, always helping. The room was very silent and the nurses parlor a few feet down the corridor. The nurses were at prayers. The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want, read the head. Her voice come with the quiet of twilight and the end of the day. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. The nurses read the response a little slowly as if they too were weary. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. The man in the chair stirred. He had come through the valley of the shadow and for what? He was very bitter. He said to himself savagely that they would better have let him die. You say you never loved me because you never knew me. I'm not a rotter, Sidney. Isn't it possible that the man you cared about who did his best by people and all that is the real me? She gazed at him thoughtfully. He missed something out of her eyes. The sort of luminous, wistful look with which he had been want to survey his greatness. Measured by this new glance, so clear, so appraising, he sank back into his chair. The man who did his best is quite real. You have always done the best in your work. You always will. But the other part is a part of you too, Max. Even if I cared, I would not dare to run the risk. Under the window rang the sharp gong of a city patrol wagon. It rumbled through the gates back to the courtyard where its continued clamor summoned white-coated orderlies. An operating room case probably. Sidney chin-lifted listened carefully. If it was a new case for her, the elevator would go up to the operating room. With a renewed sense of loss, Max saw that already she had put him out of her mind. The call to service was to her a call to battle. Her sensitive nostrils quivered. Her young figure stood erect, alert. It has gone up. She took a step toward the door, hesitated, came back and put a light hand on his shoulder. I'm sorry, dear Max. She had kissed him lightly on the cheek before he knew what she intended to do. So passionless was the little caress that, perhaps more than anything else, it typified the change in their relation. When the door closed behind her, he saw that she had left her ring on the arm of his chair. He picked it up. It was still warm from her finger. He held it to his lips with a quick gesture. In all his successful young life, he had never before felt the bitterness of failure. The very warmth of the little ring hurt. Why hadn't they let him die? He didn't want to live. He wouldn't live. Nobody cared for him. He would… His eyes lifted from the ring, fell on the red glow of the roses that had come that morning. Even in the half light, they glowed with fiery color. The ring was in his right hand. With the left, he settled his collar and soft silk tie. Kaye saw Carlotta that evening for the last time. Katie brought word to him, where he was helping Harriet close her trunk. She was on her way to Europe for the false styles that he was wanted in the lower hall. A lady, she said, closing the door behind her by way of caution. And a good thing for her she's not from the alley. The way those people beg off you is a sin and a shame, and it's not at home you're going to be to them from now on. So Kaye had put on his coat and without so much as a glance in Harriet's mirror had gone down the stairs. Carlotta was in the lower hall. She stood under the chandelier, and he saw at once the ravages that trouble had made in her. She was a dead white, and she looked 10 years older than her age. I came to see you, Dr. Edwardis. Now and then, when someone came to him for help, which was generally money, he used Christine's parlor if she happened to be out. So now, finding the door ajar and the room dark, he went in and turned on the light. Come in here, we can talk better. She did not sit down at first, but observing that her standing kept him on his feet, she sat finally. Evidently, she found it hard to speak. You were to come, Kaye encouraged her, to see if we couldn't plan something for you. Now, I think I've got it. If it's another hospital and I don't want to stay here in the city, you like surgical work, don't you? I don't care for anything else. Before we settle this, I'd better tell you what I'm thinking of. You know, of course, that I closed my hospital. A series of things happened, and I decided I was in the wrong business. That wouldn't be important, except for what it leads to. They are trying to persuade me to go back, and I'm trying to persuade myself that I'm fit to go back. You see, his tone was determinedly cheerful. My faith in myself has been pretty nearly gone. When one loses that, there isn't much left. You had been very successful, she did not look up. Well, I had, and I hadn't. I'm not going to worry you about that. My offer is this. We'll just try to forget about, about sweaters and all the rest. And if I go back, I'll take you on in the operating room. You sent me away once. Well, I can ask you to come back, can't I? He smiled at her encouragingly. Are you sure you understand about Max Wilson and myself? I understand. Don't you think you are taking a risk? Everyone makes mistakes now and then, and loving women have made mistakes since the world began. Most people live in glass houses, Ms. Harrison, and don't make any mistake about this. People can always come back. No depth is too low. All they need is the willpower. He smiled down at her. She had come armed with confession, but the offer he made was too alluring. It meant reinstatement, another chance when she had thought everything was over. After all, why should she damn herself? She would go back. She would work her finger ends off for him. She would make it up to him in other ways, but she could not tell him and lose everything. Come, he said. Shall we go back and start over again? He held out his hand. End of Chapter 28