Miss Arden doubted
if her patient realized who had sent any of them. Afterward--if there
was to be an afterward--she would show the cards to her. Miss Arden,
like many other people, knew Jordan King by reputation, for the family
was an old and established one in the city, and the early success of the
youngest son in a line not often taken up by the sons of such families
was noteworthy. Also he was good to look at, and Miss Arden,
experienced nurse though she was and devoted to her profession, had not
lost her appreciation of youth and health and good looks in those who
were not her patients.
Unexpectedly, at this hour of the night--it was well toward one
o'clock--the door suddenly opened very quietly and a familiar big figure
entered. Springing up to meet Doctor Burns, Miss Arden showed no
surprise. It was a common thing for this man, summoned to the hospital
at unholy hours for some critical case, to take time to look in on
another patient not technically in need of him.
The head on the pillow turned at the slight sound beside it. Two wide
eyes stared up at Burns. "You've made a mistake, I think," said the
patient's voice, politely yet firmly. "My doctor has red hair. I know
him by that. Your hair is black."
"I presume it is, in this light," responded Burns, sitting down by the
bed. "It's pretty red, though, by daylight. In that case will you let me
stay a minute?" His fingers pressed the pulse. Then his hand closed over
hers with a quieting touch.
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