"Well--I don't _know_ that she upset him," said Aunt Jane. "Something
did! You can find out, I guess." Her gaze was approvingly mild.
He relaxed a little.
"You want I should come with you?" she asked.
"No," hastily, "I'll send for you--if I need anything. Miss Canfield's
around, I suppose."
"Yes, she's there, I guess. She's there most of the time," said Aunt
Jane. Her face was non-committal.
But he glanced at it sharply. Then he went down to Suite A.
Herman Medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown
wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression.
Dr. Carmon scanned it. He set down the black bag and drew up a chair.
"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. He seated himself firmly in the
chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. All the little
fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for Dr. Carmon were alert
and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive
as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee--surveying
Herman Medfield.
"What is the matter?" he said.
"I don't know." Medfield's tone was indifferent. "I feel worse--general
distress--heaviness."
"Any pain?" The doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out
the stethoscope.
He adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer.
Medfield made an obliging movement forward.
"Stay where you are," said the doctor gruffly. He leaned forward and
placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his
head.
The two men were silent. Medfield with his head against the back of the
chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little
flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears.
And Dr. Carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what
the devil had gone wrong with Herman Medfield. And he listened--not so
much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never
deceived him if he trusted them.
He slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "Did you say you had pain?"
he asked.
"A little." The tone was weary.