Beyond the office and opening from it was his laboratory, which
had been the fruit closet once, and into which Dick on occasion
retired to fuss with slides and tubes and stains and a microscope.

Sometimes he called David in, and talked at length and with
enthusiasm about such human interest things as the Staphylococcus
pyogenes aureus, and the Friedlander bacillus. The older man would
listen, but his eyes were oftener on Dick than on the microscope or
the slide.

David went to the bookcase and got down a large book, much worn,
and carried it to his desk.

An hour or so later he heard footsteps in the hall and closed the
book hastily. It was Lucy, a wadded dressing gown over her
nightdress and a glass of hot milk in her hand.

"You drink this and come to bed, David," she said peremptorily.
"I've been lying upstairs waiting for you to come up, and I need
some sleep."

He had no sort of hope that she would not notice the book.

"I just got to thinking things over, Lucy," he explained, his tone
apologetic. "There's no use pretending I'm not worried. I am."

"Well, it's in God's hands," she said, quite simply. "Take this up
and drink it slowly. If you gulp it down it makes a lump in your
stomach."