"Yes," Joan gasped. She nodded toward the alcove: "Your patient's in
there."
He murmured some acknowledgment, turning away to the bedside. For
several minutes he worked steadily over the drunkard. While she waited,
her wits awhirl, Joan mechanically pinned on her hat.
Presently the physician stepped back into the room, removed his coat,
turned back his cuffs, and produced a pocket hypodermic. With narrowing
eyes he recognized Joan's preparations for the street.
"Is he all right, doctor?" she said with a feint of doubt and fear.
"He's in pretty bad shape, but I guess we can pull him round, all right.
But I need your help. You were going out?"
She met his eyes steadily. "I was only waiting to hear how he was. I've
got to hurry off to the theatre. I'm late now. If we miss the
performance tonight, we may lose our booking. And he's just been held
up--all we've got's what's coming to us next Saturday."
"I see. And you can do without him?"
"His understudy'll take his part--we'll manage somehow."
"Then I am afraid I shall have to call in assistance--a trained nurse."
"Do, please, doctor."
"Very well."
He moved toward the telephone.
"I'll be back in about an hour."
"Very well, Mrs. Quard."
He stared, perplexed, at the door, when she had shut it....
Avoiding the elevator and lobby, she slipped down the stairs and through
a side door to the street.
In ten minutes she was at the Union Ferry.
Within an hour she was in Oakland, purchasing through tickets for her
transcontinental flight.