And there in the midst of his jagged thoughts there flickered a red anger—­a desire to hurt too, to strike, to come to grips at last with her laughing philosophy of life—­to tear it down and batter it into the dust and misery in which he stood.

They had come to No. 10’s bedside.  Things had gone badly with No. 10.  She had stood a successful operation, but there had been severe haemorrhage, and, as Robert had said, there was no constitution to fight at the turning point.  Her face just showed above the creaseless sheet.  Death had already begun to clear away the mask of vice and cynicism and a lost prettiness peered through.  But the eyes were terribly alive and old.  So long as they kept open there could be no mistaking her.  They travelled from face to face, and sought and questioned.  Her voice sounded reedy and far-off.

“Not going this trip, am I, doctor?”

Rogers patted the bed.

“Certainly not.  Going along fine.  What do you expect to feel like—­with a hole like that in your inside?  Next time you have a young man, see he doesn’t carry firearms.”

One of the eyes tried to wink—­pitifully, obscenely.

“You bet your life.  Don’t want to die just yet.”

“Nobody does.”

They drew a little apart.  Rogers consulted with his colleague.  The serious loss of blood must be made good.  A transfusion.  There was a young man who had offered himself.  A suitable subject.  This afternoon at the latest.

They moved on.  Robert spoke to the man next him.  But he knew that Francey heard him.  He meant her to hear.

“It’s crazy.  They ought to be glad to let a woman like that slip out.  If she lives she’ll only infect more people with her rottenness.  She’s better dead.  Instead of that they’ll suck out somebody else’s vitality to save her.  The better the life the more pleased they’ll be to risk it.  This sacrificing the strong to the weak—­a snivelling sentimentality.”

The man he spoke to glanced at him curiously—­it was not usual for Robert Stonehouse to speak to anyone—­and said something about the medical profession and the sanctity of life.  Robert laughed.  He argued it over with himself.  It was true.  For that matter Howard and Gertie and Connie would all be better dead.  There was no use or purpose in their living.  Only sentimentalists like Francey wanted to patch them up and keep them on their feet.

People who cluttered up life ought to be cleared out of it.

He felt light-headed, yet extraordinarily sure of himself again.  He answered Rogers’ questions with the old lucidity.  And presently he found himself in the corridor, still arguing his theme over.  He would prove to Francey that she must let Howard and Gertie go to the devil and they would never quarrel again.

He came to the head of the stairs where they met after the morning’s work.

The steps were very broad and white and shallow, and gave the impression of great distance.  Mr. Ricardo, at the bottom of them, was a black speck—­a bird that had blundered into the building by mistake and beaten itself breathless against the walls.  As he saw Robert he began to drag himself up, limping.  He seemed to shrivel then to a mere face, stricken and yellow, that gaped and mouthed.