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The Doctor Prescribes Doom

By Robert Edgar

Young Doctor Meade took charge of the beautiful victim of the hit-run driver. And he found that the only cure was a quick dose of lead capsules.

THE GIRL had a bad bruise on her forehead, and a nasty cut on the left arm, below the elbow. Those were the only visible injuries.

Kneeling at her side on the floor of the little candy store, young Doc Meade thought that she was the most beautiful thing he had beheld in his life. Her dress, which was of some light, washable material, was rumpled and muddied, and her dark hair had lost any vestige of order.

But in spite of all that, her face possessed a strange, ethereal beauty which made Larry Meade feel something he had never experienced before. He suddenly felt that it was very important that this girl must live. Silently, he cursed the hit-run driver who had struck her.

The uniformed policeman on the beat was at the door, keeping the crowd out, and Joe Beloise, Larry's driver, had just come in with the stretcher. Joe took one look at the unconscious girl's face, and whistled.

"Boy," he whispered: "She's a stunner. Is she hurt bad, Larry?"

Larry Meade ran his long, sensitive fingers around the girl's skull, feeling for a possible fracture. He almost breathed a sigh of relief as he looked up and said to Beloise: "I don't think it's a fracture, Joe. But it's a concussion. Here, let's get her on the stretcher and in the bus. I'll treat her on the way in. Easy there!"

As they lifted her on to the canvas, she opened her eyes.

Larry was right above her, and he saw the sudden swift terror in those dark eyes of hers, the sudden spasm which shook her slender body underneath the thin dress.

He smiled down at her. "Take it easy, Miss," he said. "You'll be all right. We'll take good care of you."

For a moment, she seemed unable to comprehend what was going on. Then, memory flooded back.

"Oh!" Her voice was low, smooth. "I—I was hit by that car—"

"Don't talk now, Miss," Larry ordered, as he and Joe carried the stretcher out through the crowd, with the policeman clearing a path for them.

They got her into the ambulance, and the cop climbed in and asked her name and address, jotting the information down in his book.

"Kate O'Day," she told the officer. "Rountree Hotel."

"Occupation?"

"Secretary. I—I work for Mr. Raymond Cobbler."

The cop let out a low whistle. "Say, I knew you were high class, the minute I seen you lying there in the street. Raymond Cobbler, eh? The President of the Cobbler Armament Corporation!"

The girl nodded weakly, while Larry Meade worked over her injured forehead and arm, disinfecting the cuts and applying fresh, clean bandage. Almost resentfully, he realized that this girl, who worked for a millionaire armament manufacturer—and who must, therefore, make as much in a week as he made in three months—was the woman he wanted, the woman he must have for the rest of his life. Like most young internes, he had cultivated a certain shell of hardness, of ultra-sophistication. For he and his fellow internes believed that they had seen everything there was to be seen, and learned everything there was to be learned about women. They didn't think they could ever fall unselfishly and devotedly in love.

But now, Doctor Larry Meade understood that he had been all wrong.

The cop was kneeling in the ambulance alongside him, asking the girl more questions. "How come you were ou...

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