Chapter I

The names which Trench had uttered in his delirium were those of medical students who lived in his house. The first floor of it was occupied by a drug-store, and the second by his own quarters, but the third he had divided into six little suites, of two rooms each. He had intended them for Halsted Street boys, but he found that foreign students had trouble in getting rooms, and he threw open his doors to them.

Of the five students who were living in his house in 1913, two cooked for him, and served as office attendants. These were Chatterjee of Calcutta and Wu of Hong Kong.

It was late in August when Trench’s cool impersonal way of regarding things was suddenly put to a severe test.

Chatterjee had just gone on office duty. The first man gave his name as Ischl. Chat reported the name to the doctor, who had on his desk a delicate piece of apparatus, which he was repairing.

“Ask him if he owns a clothing factory.”

Chat vanished and returned. “He says yes.”

“Then I say no. Show him out.”

Presently Chat admitted Arschiak, an Armenian painter, whose wife had been killed in the massacres of 1909, but who had escaped to America with his infant son. Trench had seen the child through an attack of infantile paralysis and saved him from being a cripple. Arschiak now unwrapped a package and set a little canvas on the desk, against the piece of apparatus. It was a sketch of the point below Encampment, as he had guessed it from a photograph he had seen in Trench’s library. It was painted in open sunlight, and was really a remarkable little tour de force.

“For me? Why, man, this is worth twice my services!”

“One artist to another, monsieur, with love and homage. You have a Della Robbia above your desk. Pray have the poor Arschiak on it—about here.”

After Arschiak had gone, Trench gazed at the little treasure and remembered that day in the launch. How incredibly clear and bright it had been. The mountain on St. Joe had seemed as near as a reformer’s ideal. It was the height of rudeness never to have called on the girl who had given her beauty to save his hand.

Here Chat entered and closed the door behind him. “The other man has not gone, doctor.”

“Let him in, Chat.”

Ischl entered, burly-boned and dewlapped, and started to seat his great frame.

“Stand up,” said Trench sharply, as he went on adjusting a tiny screw. “So you are Ischl. Isn’t it possible to insult you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m damned if I do.”

“Well, I mean that you’re a bloodsucker and a dirty dog.” Here Trench set his apparatus carefully aside and stood up. “Now I’ve told you what I think of you, and you needn’t spare the furniture.”

“I come here to get help for a little girl. I ain’t come here to fight.”

“Well, you can go away again, and go quick. I’ve done enough for you. I’ve patched up a scabby little son of yours that you never saw. Get out!”

Ischl stood irresolute. Then he sat down. “I think probably you can knock me out,” he said, “but I’m too heavy to throw out, and I’ll kill that brown man if you call him.”

Trench took up the telephone and asked the nearest police station for an officer. Then he lifted the apparatus again, and finished adjusting the tiny screw.

Ischl did not take the hint.

“It ain’t my fault if my women go wrong.”

“I don’t say it is.”

“I suppose you think I should worry about them.”

“I don’t say so.”

“Then what in hell—I suppose you mean it ain’t your fault if my Elsie is sick.”

“Quite so.” Trench released a cylinder that began to turn silently.

“I ain’t sparin’ no expense,” continued Ischl doggedly. “I’ve got the best man I know. His name is Ernst, and he ain’t so young as he was.”

“If Ernst can’t cure your child, nobody can.”

“Ernst sent me to you. I’ve got a letter for you.”

“Take the letter back and tell him that he adds insult to injury. He introduced me to the world, and now he introduces me to you. You’re rotten to the core.”

Ischl clenched his fists, but suddenly relaxed them. “I may as well own the corn. Elsie got her trouble from me.”

At this point the telephone on the desk rang, and the doctor lifted the receiver—“Yes,” he said.

Ischl heard a light crackle, as of a woman’s voice, to which the doctor presently responded. “Yes. I was thinking only a few minutes ago that it was inexcusable.”

Again the faint crackle. “The little boy? I am very sorry to hear it. I shall be glad to consult with Rowland. Ask him if eleven o’clock will do.”

“My God!” broke in Ischl with a roar, “you can’t be there.”

Again the faint crackle, and this time the doctor turned to Ischl.

“Is this case surgical?”

Ischl held out the note, and Trench read it, and it was profane. Ernst had not been called soon enough. Had he seen the case earlier, it would have yielded to treatment. As matters stood, the child was likely to lose an arm.

Trench turned again to the transmitter. “Yes, it is surgical, and I will attend to it. I’m glad Girling is the next man on the list. Good-bye.”

Trench glanced once more at the note. “Mr. Ischl, I wouldn’t lift a finger to save your life. But a lady heard you and pleaded for you. Do you still want me to see your daughter?”

Ischl gulped hard, drew out a checkbook, and wrote a check for a thousand dollars. Trench took it and tore it up.

Ischl protested fiercely. “I’m going to pay you.”

“You haven’t money enough, Mr. Ischl.” Trench touched a button. Chat instantly appeared, and was told to send the officer back.

“Look here, Doc,” said Ischl, “I know there’s girls named Elsie in my shop. You visit my shop. If there’s anything you want done, say so. I’ll do it, if it puts me out of business.”

Trench turned upon him—at the sheer poetry of the man’s first sentence.

“You are speaking before a witness. Mr. Chatterjee will not forget your words.”

“Mr. What’s-’is-name can damn well remember them, then.”

“Very good, Mr. Ischl. I will visit your shop to-morrow.”

In the best room at the Children’s Hospital, Elsie was lying with her right arm and hand immobilised. She was not pretty, for her forehead was square and her face flat. She was weak and restless. Part of the night she had been in a stupor.

The nurse was mildly busy about the room. Beside the bed sat the white-haired Ernst, famous in his generation.

“Elsie, my boy has come to see you. This is Dr. Trench.”

“Is he really your boy?” The voice was very little and very hoarse.

“No, but then you aren’t Isabel’s mother.”

“Yes, I am. Give me Isabel.”

Trench lifted the doll and put it close to Elsie’s heart. Then he pushed the doll gently aside and bent down to listen. Elsie put up her good hand and fingered his hair. It was not very soft, and it twisted a little at the top of his forehead.

“Can you make me well again, doctor’s boy?”

“Of course. You do ask such funny questions in the morning.”

“Oh, I wish it was evening. I want to go to sleep.”

“Didn’t my little girl sleep well last night?”—It was no voice Ischl had heard. It reminded him of a woman dead these three years—dead of a broken heart.

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t wish it was night.”

“Why don’t you take a nap, sweetheart?”

“I can’t take a nap. Oh, I wish I could take a nap. If you would take me up in your arms, maybe I could go to sleep.”

“I will,” he said, and knelt beside the bed, and seemed to gather her in his arms. In five minutes she was asleep. In ten she had sunk into the stupor again, and later, in that condition, took the anæsthetic without knowing it.

Ischl went into the corridor. He walked up and down, that big assemblance of a man, tears streaming from his eyes. He saw Trench come out, saw him give some directions to an interne, saw him disappear into the robing room. Then, like many another father, he went into a waiting room—and waited.

An hour had passed when he saw something white wheeled through the corridor. He was quite sure that Elsie was dead, and put his head down heavily in his hands. Hardly had he done so when he felt a kind touch on his arm, and Trench was saying,

“Here, here, this won’t do. She’s going to be all right now for years, and maybe always.”