"Have you--er--any one here named Thornton--er--?" Kennedy paused
in such a way that if it were the last name he might come to a
full stop, and if it were a first name he could go on.
"There is a Mr. Thornton who came yesterday," she snapped
ungraciously, "but you can not see him, It's against the rules."
"Yes--yesterday," repeated Kennedy eagerly, ignoring her tartness.
"Could I--" he slipped a crumpled treasury note into her hand--
"could I speak to Mr. Thornton's nurse?"
The note seemed to render the acidity of the girl slightly
alkaline. She opened the door a little further, and we found
ourselves in a plainly furnished reception room, alone.
We might have been in the reception-room of a prosperous country
gentleman, so quiet was it. There was none of the raving, as far
as I could make out. that I should have expected even in a
twentieth century Bedlam, no material for a Poe story of Dr. Tarr
and Professor Feather.
At length the hall door opened, and a man entered, not a
prepossessing man, it is true, with his large and powerful hands
and arms and slightly bowed, almost bulldog legs.
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