“Dr. Aarons is on his way, Miss Francis. He’ll be at the hotel in twenty minutes.”

Christine hesitated. He could come too late. Also, she sometimes had doubts about his competence. She told the operator, “I’m not sure we can wait that long. Would you check our own guest list to see if we have any doctors registered?”

“I already did that. There’s a Dr. Koenig in 221, and Dr. Uxbridge in 1203.”

“All right, ring 221, please.” Doctors who registered in hotels expected privacy, once in a while, though, emergency justified a break with protocol.

A sleepy voice answered, “Yes, who is it?”

Christine identified herself. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Koenig, but one of our other guests is extremely ill. I wonder if you could come.”

“My dearest young lady, I would be very glad to assist. Alas, I am a doctor of music, here to ‘guest conduct’ this city’s fine symphony orchestra.”

Christine had an impulse to laugh. She apologized.

“Of course, if my unfortunate fellow guest becomes beyond the help of the other kind of doctors, I could bring my violin to play for him.”

“Thank you. I hope that won’t be necessary.” She was impatient to make the next call.

Dr. Uxbridge in 1203 answered the telephone at once. He could help and promised to come in a few minutes.

Christine instructed the bellboy to go find Mr. McDermott and bring him here. She picked up the telephone again.

“The chief engineer, please.”

Doc Vickery was Christine’s friend, and she knew that she was one of his favorites. In a few words she told him about Albert Wells. “The doctor isn’t here yet, but he’ll probably want oxygen.”

“I will bring it myself. If I don’t, some clown will likely open a tank under your man’s nose, and that’ll finish him for sure.”

The little man’s eyes were closed. He appeared not to be breathing at all.

There was a tap at the opened door and a tall man stepped in from the corridor. A dark blue suit failed to conceal beige pajamas beneath. “Uxbridge,” he announced in a quiet, firm voice.

The newcomer took out a syringe, assembled it. When he had drawn the fluid from a small glass vial into the syringe, he pushed the patient’s sleeve upward, cleansed the forearm above a vein with alcohol and inserted the syringe. Glancing at his watch, he began to inject the liquid slowly.

“Aminophylline; it should stimulate the heart.”

A minute passed. Two. The syringe was half empty. So far there was no response.

Christine whispered, “What is it that’s wrong?”

“Severe bronchitis, with asthma as a complication. I suspect he’s had these attacks before.”

Suddenly the little man was breathing, more slowly than before, but with fuller, deeper breaths. His eyes opened. The tension in the room had lessened.

“You were very ill when we found you, Mr. Wells. This is Dr. Uxbridge who was staying in the hotel and came to help.”

Mr. Wells looked at the doctor and said with an effort: “Thank you.”

“If there’s anyone to thank it should be this young lady.”

The doctor then told Christine, “The gentleman is still very sick and will need further medical attention. My advice is for immediate transfer to a hospital.”

“No, no! I don’t want that.” The words came from the elderly man in the bed.

For the first time Christine studied his appearance. Originally she had judged him to be in his early sixties; now she decided to add a half dozen years. His face held an expression, which was mild and inoffensive, almost apologetic.

The first occasion she had met Albert Wells had been two years earlier. He had come to the hotel’s executive suite, concerned about his bill. The amount in question was seventy-five cents, and Albert Wells insisted that he did not owe it to the hotel. Christine proved that the little man was right. She liked him and respected him for his stand.

“If you stay here, you’ll need a nurse for twenty-four hours and oxygen.”

The little man insisted, “You can arrange about a nurse, can’t you, miss?”

“I suppose we could.” She wondered, though doubting whether he had any idea of the high cost of private nursing.

The chief engineer came in, wheeling an oxygen cylinder on a trolley.

“This isn’t hospital style, Chris. It might work, though.”

Dr. Uxbridge seemed surprised. Christine explained her original idea that oxygen might be needed, and introduced the chief engineer, who was connecting the tube to the plastic bag.

“This hotel appears to have some highly competent help.” Dr. Uxbridge was still perplexed.

She laughed. “Wait until we mix up your reservations. You’ll change your mind.”

The chief engineer had connected the free end of the rubber tube to the green cylinder with oxygen. Dr. Uxbridge told him, “We’ll begin with five minutes on oxygen and five minutes off.” Together they arranged the improvised mask around the sick man’s face.

“Have you sent for a local doctor?”

Christine explained about Dr. Aarons.

Dr. Uxbridge nodded in approval.

There were firm footsteps down the corridor and Peter McDermott strode in. His eyes went to the bed. “Will he be all right?”

“I think so.” Then she brought Peter into the corridor and described the change in rooms, which the bellboy had told her about. “If he stays, we should give him another room, and I imagine we could get a nurse.”

Peter nodded in agreement. A few minutes later, everything was arranged.

“You must have been insane,” the Duchess of Croydon protested after Peter McDermott’s departure, carefully closing the inner door behind her.

“I’m sorry, old girl. Couldn’t hear the fellow. Thought he’d left.”

“You make it sound as if it’s all some sort of game.”

The Duchess went on accusingly, “I was doing the best I could. I even invented a walk that we went for in case anyone saw us come in. And then you announce you left your cigarettes in the car.”

“Only one heard me.”

“He noticed. I was watching his face.” She continued, “We’d be suspected. That’s why I made that trouble with the waiter. It isn’t an alibi but it’s the next best thing. Going gambling tonight was madness; and to take that woman…”

“We have already discussed that,” the Duke said wearily. “Exhaustively. On our way back. Before it happened.” The Duke of Croydon sipped his drink. “Why’d you marry me?”

“I suppose it was mostly that you stood out in our circle as someone who was doing something worthwhile.”

“Washington?” The word was a question.

“We could manage it,” the Duchess said. “If I could keep you sober and in your own bed.”

“Aha!” Her husband laughed. “A cold bed it is. Ever wondered why I married you?” He drank again, as if for courage, “Wanted you in that bed. Fast. Legally.”

“I’m surprised you bothered. With so many others to choose from – before and since.”

“Didn’t want others. Wanted you. Still do. Magnificent. Savage. Passionate.”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Her face was white, her voice high pitched. “I don’t care if the police catch you! I hope they do! I hope you get ten years!”

After making the necessary arrangements, Peter McDermott returned to 1439 and asked for Dr. Uxbridge’s permission to transfer the patient to another room on the same floor.

The doctor who had responded to Christine’s emergency call nodded.

Then McDermott turned to Christine, “We’ll let Dr. Aarons arrange nursing care.”

“I’m worried about that. I don’t think he has much money.” When she was concentrating, Peter noticed, Christine’s nose had a charming way of crinkling. He was aware of her closeness and a faint, fragrant perfume.

“Oh well,” he said, “we’ll let the credit department look into it then. Now let’s get Mr. Wells to 1410.” But the doorway, they discovered, was an inch too narrow for the bed.