“He’s going to be all right,” Dr. Holoman said, “but it’s been touch-and-go. I had the devil of a time stopping that hemorrhage. He got too excited. I’m going to insist that he keep absolutely quiet for at least three days.” He popped back into the bathroom and closed the door.

Sandra Birks said, “He’s a beast. He’s always made those rotten insinuations. I’ve been absolutely true to him. I’ve never so much as looked at another man all the time I’ve been married. He’s even poisoned my own brother’s mind against me.”

I went back in the closet, changed my clothes, and wrapped up the bellboy costume.

She walked over to the door and called out, in a loud voice, “Oh, Bleatie, it’s all right. He’s been served.”

I heard Bleatie’s voice from the other side of the bathroom door saying, “Shud up. He cad hear.” Then from the other room, sounding distant and mumbled, but still taunting, came Morgan Birks’ voice, distinctly audible: “Bleatie, eh? So I have you to thank for this? I should have known it.”

Bleatie sputtered into noise. “You’re crazy, Morgan,” he yelled in his hay-fever voice. “I stuck up for you. I’ve got something in my pocket to give you. Open the door.” There was silence for a minute or two, then the bathroom door burst open, and Bleatie came storming into the room. He was a mess, with red stains all over his shirt and coat. “You fool!” he cried at Sandra, his voice coming thickly past the bandaged nose. “Haven’t you any more sense than to yell at me like that? Didn’t you know he could hear?”

“I’m sorry, Bleatie.”

“Sorry, hell!” he shouted. “You never did anything in your life you were sorry for, unless it was something that inconvenienced you. Now that the papers have been served, you don’t give a damn about me. Well, I’ll make it a point to see that you don’t stick Morgan for a lot of alimony.”

He dashed past us, jerked the door to the corridor open and ran around to room 618. He hammered on the door. Then, when there was no answer, said, pleadingly, “Morgan, let me in. It’s Bleatie. I want to talk with you. I have something to tell you.”

Bertha Cool finished the last of her drink and smiled benignly at the tense group in the room. After a moment, Sandra Birks moved out into the corridor where she could watch Bleatie standing in front of the door, pleading and knocking.

Bertha Cool said calmly, “Come on, Donald. We’re going back to the office.”

I looked over at Alma Hunter, and her glance showed me that she understood.

“I did have a dinner date,” I said. “Something to talk over—”