The hospital itself loomed up before me that Sunday morning as I approached it along Ballantyne Street, a diluted sunshine washing the extended, businesslike facade of grimy, yellow brick.  We were proud of that hospital in the city, and many of our foremost citizens had contributed large sums of money to the building, scarcely ten years old.  It had been one of Maude’s interests.  I was ushered into the reception room, where presently came the physician in charge, a Dr. Castle, one of those quiet-mannered, modern young medical men who bear on their persons the very stamp of efficiency, of the dignity of a scientific profession.  His greeting implied that he knew all about me, his presence seemed to increase the agitation I tried not to betray, and must have betrayed.

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Paret?” he asked.

“I have come to inquire about Mr. Krebs, who was brought here last night, I believe.”

I was aware for an instant of his penetrating, professional glance, the only indication of the surprise he must have felt that Hermann Krebs, of all men, should be the object of my solicitude.

“Why, we sent him home this morning.  Nineteen twenty six Fowler Street.  He wanted to go, and there was no use in his staying.”

“He will recover?” I asked.

The physician shook his head, gazing at me through his glasses.

“He may live a month, Mr. Paret, he may die to-morrow.  He ought never to have gone into this campaign, he knew he had this trouble.  Hepburn warned him three months ago, and there’s no man who knows more about the heart than Hepburn.”

“Then there’s no hope?” I asked.

“Absolutely none.  It’s a great pity.”  He added, after a moment, “Mr. Krebs was a remarkable man.”

“Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

I held out my hand mechanically, and he pressed it, and went with me to the door.

“Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street,” he repeated...

The mean and sordid aspect of Fowler Street emphasized and seemed to typify my despair, the pungent coal smoke stifled my lungs even as it stifled my spirit.  Ugly factories, which were little more than sweatshops, wore an empty, menacing, “Sunday” look, and the faint November sunlight glistened on dirty pavements where children were making a semblance of play.  Monotonous rows of red houses succeeded one another, some pushed forward, others thrust back behind little plots of stamped earth.  Into one of these I turned.  It seemed a little cleaner, better kept, less sordid than the others.  I pulled the bell, and presently the door was opened by a woman whose arms were bare to the elbow.  She wore a blue-checked calico apron that came to her throat, but the apron was clean, and her firm though furrowed face gave evidences of recent housewifely exertions.  Her eyes had the strange look of the cheerfulness that is intimately acquainted with sorrow.  She did not seem surprised at seeing me.