“Hull-lo!” he added a little later. “Ruptured abscess. He’s made a job of it.”

“Accounts for the attacks of pain,” Phillips grunted.

“Of course, sir. Wonder he kept going so long—look there.”

“Nasty mess,” said Phillips. “Good God, matron, are you deaf! I said forceps.”

Sister Marigold bridled slightly and gave a genteel cough. There was silence for some time. Sir John’s fingers worked, nervously, inquisitively, and with a kind of delicate assurance.

“The pulse is weak, Sir John,” said Roberts suddenly.

“Oh? Look at this, Thoms.”

“I don’t like this pulse.”

“What’s the matter, Roberts? Pulse?”

“Yes. It’s rather weak. I don’t like his looks. Get me an-injection of camphor, will you, nurse?”

Nurse Banks filled the second small hypodermic syringe and brought it to him.

“Give it, nurse, at once, please.”

She did so.

“Serum,” grunted Phillips.

“Serum, Nurse Harden,” murmured the sister.

Jane crossed to the table of apparatus. There was a little delay.

“Well—well, where is it?” asked Phillips impatiently.

“Nurse!” called Thoms angrily. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry—but—”

“It’s the large syringe,” said Nurse Banks.

“Very well,” said Jane faintly.

She bent over the table.

Phillips finished sewing up the incision.

“Nurse,” repeated Thoms, “will you bring me that syringe! What’s the matter with you?”

An agitated drop appeared on the end of his nose. Sister Marigold cast an expert glance at it and wiped it off with a piece of gauze.

Jane came back uncertainly, holding the tray. Phillips straightened his back and stood looking at the wound. Thoms put on the dressing and then gave the injection.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that. Very nasty case. I suppose he’s neglected it.”

“I believe so,” answered Phillips slowly. “I saw him the other evening and I had no idea he was ill—no idea of it.”

“How’s the condition now, Roberts?” asked Thoms.

“Not too brilliant.”

“Well—take him to bed,” said Phillips.

“And take that tray away,” added Thoms irritably to Jane who still stood at his elbow.

She turned her head and looked into Phillips’s eyes. He seemed to avoid her gaze and moved away. She turned towards the other table. Her steps grew more uncertain. She stopped, swayed a little, and fell forward on the tiled floor.

“Good God, what’s the girl up to now!” shouted Thoms.

Phillips strode across the theatre and stood staring down at her.

“Fainted,” he said behind his mask. He looked at his bloodstained gloves, pulled them off and knelt beside her. Sister Marigold “Tut-tut-tutted” like a scandalised hen and rang a bell. Nurse Banks glanced across and then stolidly helped Thoms to cover the patient and lift him back on the trolley. Dr. Roberts did not even look up. He had bent over the patient in an attitude of the most intense concentration. Two nurses came in.

“Nurse Harden’s fainted,” said the matron briefly.