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people might have developed tuberculosis and it could have remained undetected, as it did here, until too late.”
    Two of the student nurses moved back instinctively from the table.
    Pearson shook his head. “Within reason there is no danger of infection here. Tuberculosis is a respiratory disease. But because of what we have learned today, those who have been close to this man will be kept under observation and given periodic checks for several years to come.”
    To his own surprise Seddons found himself stirred by Pearson’s words. He makes it sound good, he thought; what’s more, he believes in what he is saying. He discovered that at this moment he was liking the old man.
    As if he had read Seddons’ mind, Pearson looked over to the surgical resident. With a mocking smile: “Pathology has its victories too, Dr. Seddons.”
    He nodded at the nurses. Then he was gone, leaving a cloud of cigar smoke behind.
     
    Four
     
    The monthly surgical-mortality conference was scheduled for 2:30 P.M . At three minutes to the half-hour Dr. Lucy Grainger, a little harried as if time were working against her, hurried into the administration reception office. “Am I late?” she asked the secretary at the information desk.
    “I don’t think they’ve started, Dr. Grainger. They just went in the board room.” The girl had indicated the double oak-paneled doorway down the hall, and now, as she approached, Lucy could hear a hum of conversation from inside.
    As she entered the big room with its pile carpet, long walnut table, and carved chairs, she found herself close to Kent O’Donnell and another younger man she did not recognize. Around them was a babel of talk and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. The monthly mortality conferences were usually looked on as command performances, and already most of the hospital’s forty-odd staff surgeons had arrived, as well as house staff—interns and residents.
    “Lucy!” She smiled a greeting at two of the other surgeons, then turned back as O’Donnell called to her. He was maneuvering the other man with him.
    “Lucy, I’d like you to meet Dr. Roger Hilton. He’s just joined the staff. You may recall his name came up some time ago.”
    “Yes, I do remember.” She smiled at Hilton, her face crinkling.
    “This is Dr. Grainger.” O’Donnell was always punctilious about helping new staff members to become known. He added, “Lucy is one of our orthopedic surgeons.”
    She offered Hilton her hand and he took it. He had a firm grasp, a boyish smile. She guessed his age at twenty-seven. “If you’re not tired of hearing it,” she said, “welcome!”
    “Matter of fact, I’m rather enjoying it.” He looked as if he were.
    “Is this your first hospital appointment?”
    Hilton nodded. “Yes. I was a surgical resident at Michael Reese.”
    Lucy remembered more clearly now. This was a man whom Kent O’Donnell had been very keen to get to Burlington. And undoubtedly that meant Hilton had good qualifications.
    “Come over here a minute, Lucy.” Kent O’Donnell had moved back near her and was beckoning.
    Excusing herself to Hilton, she followed the chief of surgery to one of the board-room windows, away from the immediate press of people.
    “That’s a little better; at least we can make ourselves heard.” O’Donnell smiled. “How have you been, Lucy? I haven’t seen you, except in line of duty, for quite a while.”
    She appeared to consider. “Well, my pulse has been normal; temperature around ninety-eight point eight. Haven’t checked blood pressure recently.”
    “Why not let me do it?” O’Donnell said. “Over dinner, for example.”
    “Do you think it’s wise? You might drop the sphygmomanometer in the soup.”
    “Let’s settle for dinner then and forget the rest.”
    “I’d love to, Kent,” Lucy said. “But I’ll have to look at my book first.”
    “Do that and I’ll phone you. Let’s try to make it next week.” O’Donnell touched her lightly on