k and threw a black bag upon his desk. He wrote some
instructions for his man on a prescription pad and then drew on his
overcoat. "All ready," he announced, putting out his lamp. Mr. Kronborg
rose and they tramped through the empty hall and down the stairway to
the street. The drug store below was dark, and the saloon next door was
just closing. Every other light on Main Street was out.

On either side of the road and at the outer edge of the board sidewalk,
the snow had been shoveled into breastworks. The town looked small and
black, flattened down in the snow, muffled and all but extinguished.
Overhead the stars shone gloriously. It was impossible not to notice
them. The air was so clear that the white sand hills to the east of
Moonstone gleamed softly. Following the Reverend Mr. Kronborg along the
narrow walk, past the little dark, sleeping houses, the doctor looked up
at the flashing night and whistled softly. It did seem that people were
stupider than they need be; as if on a night like this there ought to be
something better to do than to sleep nine hours, or to assist Mrs.
Kronborg in functions which she could have performed so admirably
unaided. He wished he had gone down to Denver to hear Fay Templeton sing
"See-Saw." Then he remembered that he had a personal interest in this
family, after all. They turned into another street and saw before them
lighted windows; a low story-and-a-half house, with a wing built on at
the right and a kitchen addition at the back, everything a little on the
slant--roofs, windows, and doors. As they approached the gate, Peter
Kronborg's pace grew brisker. His nervous, ministerial cough annoyed the
doctor. "Exactly as if he were going to give out a text," he thought. He
drew off his glove and felt in his vest pocket. "Have a troche,
Kronborg," he said, producing some. "Sent me for samples. Very good for
a rough throat."

"Ah, thank you, thank you. I was in something of a hurry. I neglected to
put on my overshoes. Here we are, doctor." Kronborg opened his front
door--seemed delighted to be at home again.

The front hall was dark and cold; the hatrack was hung with an
astonishing number of children's hats and caps and cloaks. They were
even piled on the table beneath the hatrack. Under the table was a heap
of rubbers and overshoes. While the doctor hung up his coat and hat,
Peter Kronborg opened the door into the living-room. A glare of light
greeted them, and a rush of hot, stale a