CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Two medical students walked with Greeley as he left the lecture theater, each vying for the occasional luck to open a door for him or hear some choice words. There was always a chance of an unexpected lecture during the long walk to the commons room. Maybe a discourse on wound corruption and sepsis, or new surgical and amputation techniques.

But today Greeley was silent. He seemed barely to notice them trotting along. His face was rigid with self-absorption, as if he were on his way to a delicate and lifesaving surgery.

The students gave up and fell behind him, starting up their own conversation in low voices.

"We'd better hurry if you don't want to miss the guest lecturer in the hygiene class. Sir Philip Constable, the deputy minister of public health, is talking about cholera."

"Hardly likely, I would think," answered the other.

"What, have I got my schedule wrong?" He scrabbled nervously among his books and papers and pulled out a carefully drawn timetable.

"No, I suppose your bloody schedule is good. It's just that Sir Philip was drowned in the Queenhithe sewers yesterday. They still haven't found the body."

"No!" The student's papers were forgotten for a moment, but they both kept walking.

"He was apparently heading some sort of search party. So now we have to sit through two hours of the Saturday talk on poorhouse sanitation techniques. Damn."

The two turned a corner. Ten paces behind them Greeley stopped, his face suddenly flushed, his hands clenched tight around a case of papers. His breathing came in short gasps, loud enough that an anatomy lecturer stopped to see if Greeley needed help. The man backed off at Greeley's curt reply.

Greeley shivered, as if suddenly cold, and then left the hospital courtyard and hailed a cab.