The old man naturally supposed that Mason knew the nature of Georgia's
illness and was trying to reassure him, in a kindly way, that as
typhoid cases go it was only a very little one.
Indeed, the old man, if he was a little lax later on in wiring all the
developments in the case--because he didn't want to frighten the young
man into throwing up his investigation in the very middle of it--was
more valuably helpful in another way.
When the fever reached its crisis he got a great specialist out of bed
for a three o'clock in the morning consultation over the little
stenographer, and charged his costly loss of sleep to the company
instead of to Mason Stevens, Mr. Silverman cordially approving.
They said afterwards that Georgia could not have taken another small
step toward death, without dying. She flickered and guttered like a
lamp whose oil has been used up. For a few moments it seemed that her
light had been put out altogether, but there must have been a tiny
spark hidden somewhere in the charred wick, for the doctors brought her
back by artificial stimulation, and you can not stimulate the dead.
If specialists and private rooms and nurses give sick people more
chance of getting well, then Stevens and the old man and Mr. Silverman
saved Georgia by their care of her, for she could not have had less
chance to live and lived.