"I can't say." He hadn't the courage to tell her it would be three weeks at least, perhaps six or seven. He got leave of the ambulance surgeon for Susan to ride to the hospital, and he went along himself. As the ambulance sped through the dimly lighted streets with clanging bell and heavy pounding of the horse's hoofs on the granite pavement, Susan knelt beside Burlingham, holding one of his hot hands. She was remembering how she had said that she would die for him--and here it was he that was dying for her. And her heart was heavy with a load of guilt, the heaviest she was ever to feel in her life. She could not know how misfortune is really the lot of human beings; it seemed to her that a special curse attended her, striking down all who befriended her. They dashed up to great open doors of the hospital. Burlingham was lifted, was carried swiftly into the receiving room. Susan with tearless eyes bent over, embraced him lingeringly, kissed his fiery brow, his wasted cheeks. One of the surgeons in white duck touched her on the arm. "We can't delay," he said. "No indeed," she replied, instantly drawing back. She watched the stretcher on wheels go noiselessly down the corridor toward the elevator and when it was gone she still continued to look. "You can come at any hour to inquire," said the young doctor who had accompanied her. "Now we'll go into the office and have the slip made out." They entered a small room, divided unequally by a barrier desk; behind it stood a lean, coffee-sallowed young man with a scrawny neck displayed to the uttermost by a standing collar scarcely taller than the band of a shirt. He directed at Susan one of those obtrusively shrewd glances which shallow people practice and affect to create the impression that they have a genius for character reading. He drew a pad of blank forms toward him, wiped a pen on the mat into which his mouse-colored hair was roached above his right temple. "Well, miss, what's the patient's name?" "Robert Burlingham." "Age?" "I don't know." "About what?" "I--I don't know. I guess he isn't very young. But I don't know." "Put down forty, Sim," said the doctor. "Very well, Doctor Hamilton." Then to Susan: "Color white, I suppose. Nativity?" Susan recalled that she had heard him speak of Liverpool as his birthplace. "English," said she. "Profession?" "Actor." "Residence?" "He hasn't any. It was sunk at Jeffersonville. We stop at the Walnut Street House." "Walnut Street House. Was he married or single?" "Single." Then she recalled some of the disconnected ravings. "I--I--don't know." "Single," said the clerk. "No, I guess I'll put it widower. Next friend or relative?" "I am." "Daughter. First name?" "I am not his daughter." "Oh, niece. Full name, please." "I am no relation--just his--his friend."