The doctor had arrived at eight o'clock, cheery as ever, and had come
downstairs after seeing Ruth to ask him to telephone to Mrs. Porter. In
his overwrought state, this had jarred upon Kirk. Here, he felt, was
somebody who could help where he was useless.
Mrs. Porter had appeared in a cab and had had the cold brutality to ask
for a glass of sherry and a sandwich before going upstairs. She put
forward the lame excuse that she had not dined. Kirk gave her the
sherry and sandwich and resumed his patrol in a glow of indignation.
The idea of any one requiring food at this moment struck him as gross
and revolting.
His wrath did not last. In a short while fear came back into its own.
The hands of the clock pointed to ten before he stooped to following
Mrs. Porter's example. George Pennicut had been sent out, so he went
into the little kitchen, where he found eggs, which he mixed with milk
and swallowed. After this he was aware of a momentary excess of
optimism. The future looked a little brighter. But not for long.
Presently he was prowling the studio as restlessly as ever.
Men of Kirk's type are not given to deep thought. Until now he had
probably never spent more than a couple of minutes consecutively in
self-examination. This vigil forced him upon himself and caused him to
pass his character under review, with strange and unsatisfactory
results.
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