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II
DR. MILLER'S entrance into the operating-room of the Trall Hospital, clad in full khaki hunting-togs, with even his revolver and cartridges girded around his equator like the rings of Saturn, caused a flutter of consternation among the three prim nurses waiting beside the little glass and iron table. The Trall Hospital, private, sedate, conservative, maintained its dignity even in the face of life and death emergencies. Dr. Miller was, at times, a disturbing factor in its routine, though an absolutely indispensable one. The three nurses, not having been informed regarding the situation, exchanged scandalized glances.
"Where's Benedict?" demanded Miller curtly of Miss Willett, quelling the young woman with a sweep of his eye — an eye which never yet had been disobeyed.
"Hullo, there, doctor!" answered a voice from the sterilizing-room. "I'm washing up. Say, but I'm glad you're here, though! Come on and scrub."
Miller strode through the door.
"What's the trouble?" he asked.
"Trouble enough — patient's just being etherized now. I was never so relieved in all my life as when I got your wire saying you'd be here. Everything's figured out to a T. If you'd been late, though —"
Benedict looked around with a grimace
"Who is it? What is it?" Miller persisted, the while he slipped his operating-tunic over his coat and took a handful of green-soap. He glanced sharply at the younger man, his class-mate of five years ago, now his assistant at the Trall.
"Young woman, about twenty-five or so," answered Benedict. "Didn't get the name very well, but I think she's from Hillingdon. No matter — she's a stranger here, anyway."
"Well, what's the difficulty?" interrogated Miller, a shade of impatience rising in his voice. The word "Hillingdon" recalled the bitter quarrel, the shame of being misunderstood, the curt dismissal — all the miserable affair which his hunting-trip had so signally failed to obliterate. "Well, what is it?"
"Aneurism of the left jugular."
"So?"
"Yes — rather unusual, eh?"
"I should say so. Badly distended?"
"Liable to end fatally any hour — been coming on for some time, but diagnosed as neuralgia or some such foolishness — very unfortunate error of some local doctor down there."
"Why didn't you call in Ferrell, or go ahead with it yourself?"
Benedict shook his head.
"No, no," he answered, "I thought we'd better wait for you. Don't want to throw bouquets, you know, but —"
"There now, that'll do!" grumbled Miller, rinsing his hands. Miller was impervious to compliments. Not even the fact that at twenty-nine, only four years out of college, he was already something of an authority on aneurisms, could upset his strictly impersonal attitude toward his own skill. "Everything all ready?" he went on. "Hemostats? Scalpels? Silver wire? Must have it very fine, you know — can't wrap a jugular with ship's cable!"
"You'll find everything correct," Benedict assured him. "There, she's being brought in now!"
The quiet opening of a door and the roll of rubber-tired wheels, joined with a sickish whiff of ether, heralded the introduction of the patient into the bright glare of the operating-room. Miller heard a whispering and a shuffle of feet as the orderly and nurses laid the woman on the table; then a slight scraping noise told that they were dragging the instrument-stands into position. Benedict walked out to take his place; Miller gave his hands a last dip, a final drying, and followed him.
For a moment he did not see the face of the woman; then Miss Willett drew from it the sterilized cloth, and — Miller's heart gave a sick jump; all the blood in him seemed rushing to it, leaving his ruddy face as gray as winter's dawn. His stout knees trembled; and that steady hand of his, which had so often held the even balance between life and death — where was now its cunning? Little glistening diamonds of sweat came prickling out all over his forehead.
He stepped back into the sterilizing-room, shaking like a frightened child.
"Oh, Lord!" he gasped. "You — Isabelle! Benedict," he called a moment later, in a choking voice, "come out here!"
The assistant surgeon came to him.
"Say, Benedict, I — I —" stammered Miller. "Say, what does this mean? How did Isa — she — this patient get here? She — she — why —" He choked, stared, remained speechless.
"What in time's the matter with you?" questioned Benedict, alarmed. "Touch of sun?"
"No, no — nothing! Just tell me the — the circumstances, can't you?"
"Why, there's nothing much to tell. Got a telephone from Mrs. Dill, up there on Benton Avenue, you know, last night. Went up. Found she had a friend visiting from Hillingdon — this woman here. Pain in throat, abnormal pulsation, and all that sort of thing — made the examination — found the aneurism, that's all. Had her kept quiet till this morning — then brought here. Consultation. Decided to wire you on the chance — you said you'd be at the Dorian today. Well, you're here, and so's the patient — everything all right so far. Get it? Anything out of order? . . ."
"No, no, but —"
"But what? Here's your patient all anesthetized and waiting. It's up to
The assistant seemed to have taken control; Miller was, for a moment, as clay in his hands. But only for a moment; then he elbowed Benedict out through the door.
"All right," he said. "Get everything ready; I'll be there in a minute." He gripped his strong, sterile hands together so tight that the knuckles whitened under the tan; he clinched his teeth till the big jaw-muscles bunched like cordage. "Now, boy!"
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