“Well, her face was kinder white and small, with an awful lot of black hair fitting close to it. Said she came from Hope Hospital.”
Amherst looked up. “Did you show her over?” he asked with sudden interest.
Duplain laughed slangily. “What? Me? And have Truscomb get on to it and turn me down? How’d I know she wasn’t a yellow reporter?”
Amherst uttered an impatient exclamation. “I wish to heaven a yellow reporter would go through these mills, and show them up in head—lines a yard high!”
He regretted not having seen the nurse again: he felt sure she would have been interested in the working of the mills, and quick to notice the signs of discouragement and ill—health in the workers’ faces; but a moment later his regret was dispelled by the thought of his visit to Mrs. Westmore. The afternoon hours dragged slowly by in the ofice, where he was bound to his desk by Truscomb’s continued absence; but at length the evening whistle blew, the clerks in the outer room caught their hats from the rack, Duplain presented himself with the day’s report, and the two men were free to walk home.
Two hours later Amherst was mounting Mrs. Westmore’s steps; and his hand was on the bell when the door opened and Dr. Disbrow came out. The
physician drew back, as if surprised and slightly discon-
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