"You can come at any hour to inquire," said
the young doctor who had accompanied her. "Now we'll go into the
office and have the slip made out."
They entered a small room, divided unequally by a barrier desk;
behind it stood a lean, coffee-sallowed young man with a scrawny
neck displayed to the uttermost by a standing collar scarcely
taller than the band of a shirt. He directed at Susan one of
those obtrusively shrewd glances which shallow people practice
and affect to create the impression that they have a genius for
character reading. He drew a pad of blank forms toward him,
wiped a pen on the mat into which his mouse-colored hair was
roached above his right temple. "Well, miss, what's the
patient's name?"
"Robert Burlingham."
"Age?"
"I don't know."
"About what?"
"I--I don't know. I guess he isn't very young. But I don't know."
"Put down forty, Sim," said the doctor.
"Very well, Doctor Hamilton." Then to Susan: "Color white, I
suppose. Nativity?"
Susan recalled that she had heard him speak of Liverpool as his
birthplace. "English," said she.
"Profession?"
"Actor."
"Residence?"
"He hasn't any. It was sunk at Jeffersonville. We stop at the
Walnut Street House."
"Walnut Street House. Was he married or single?"
"Single." Then she recalled some of the disconnected ravings.
"I--I--don't know."
"Single," said the clerk. "No, I guess I'll put it widower.
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