“It looks like a tally-stick. What are the notches in aid of?”

Roberts looked self-conscious. He glanced deprecatingly at Phillips.

“I’m afraid you’ll set me down as a very vain individual,” he said shyly.

“Come on,” said Thoms. “Spill the beans! Are they all the people you’ve killed or are they your millionaire patients?”

“Not that—no. As a matter of fact, it is a sort of tally. They represent cases of severe heart disease to whom I have given anæsthetic successfully.”

Thoms roared with laughter and Roberts blushed like a schoolboy.

“Are you ready?” asked Phillips coldly.

They all went out together.

In the theatre Sister Marigold, Nurse Banks, and a nurse who had appeared to “scally,” cleaned up and prepared for another operation, an urgent bronchoscopy, to be performed by a throat specialist. Jane had been taken off to the nurses’ quarters.

“Two urgent ops. in one evening!” exclaimed the matron importantly; “we are busy. What’s the time, nurse?”

“Six thirty-five,” said Banks.

“Whatever was the matter with Harden, matron?” asked the scally.

“I’m sure I don’t know, nurse,” rejoined Sister Marigold.

“I do,” said Nurse Banks grimly.

Sister Marigold cast upon her a glance in which curiosity struggled with dignity. Dignity triumphed. Fortunately the scally was not so handicapped.

“Well, Banks,” she said, “come clean. Why did she faint?”

“She knew the patient.”

“What! Knew Sir Derek O’Callaghan? Harden?”

“Oh, yes! Their people were neighbours down in Dorset, don’t you know,” aped Banks with what she imagined to be the accent of landed proprietorship.

Sister Marigold’s starch seemed to crackle disapproval.

“Nurse Harden comes of a very nice family,” she said pointedly to the scally.

“Oh, most fraytefully nayce,” jeered Banks. “Yes, she knew O’Callaghan all right. I happened to say, about a month ago it was, that he was probably the most completely unscrupulous of the Tories and she didn’t half flare up. Then she told me.”

“Thank you, Nurse Banks, that will do,” said matron icily. “The theatre is not the place for politics. I think we are ready now. I want a word with the doctor about this case.”

She rustled out of the theatre.

“You’ve got a nerve, Banks,” said the scally. “Fancy talking like that about Sir Derek. I think he looks lovely in his photos.”

“You think because he’s got a face like Conrad Veidt he’s a suitable leader of the people—a man to make laws. Typical bourgeois ignorance and stupidity! However, he’s probably the last of his species and he’ll be the first to go when the Dawn breaks.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“I know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t. What Dawn?”

“The Dawn of the Proletariat Day.”

“What’s that? No, don’t lose your hair, Banks. I’d like to know.”

“You will know,” said Banks. “Very shortly.”