So she went down alone to the room where Dr. Ed sat in a chair, with his untidy bag beside him on the floor, and his eyes fixed on a straight figure on the bed. When he saw Sidney, he got up and put his arms around her. His eyes told her the truth before he told her anything. She hardly listened to what he said. The fact was all that concerned her—that her lover was dying there, so near that she could touch him with her hand, so far away that no voice, no caress of hers, could reach him.
The why would come later. Now she could only stand, with Dr. Ed’s arms about her, and wait.
“If they would only do something!” Sidney’s voice sounded strange to her ears.
“There is nothing to do.”
But that, it seemed, was wrong. For suddenly Sidney’s small world, which had always sedately revolved in one direction, began to move the other way.
The door opened, and the staff came in. But where before they had moved heavily, with drooped heads, now they came quickly, as men with a purpose. There was a tall man in a white coat with them. He ordered them about like children, and they hastened to do his will. At first Sidney only knew that now, at last, they were going to do something—the tall man was going to do something. He stood with his back to Sidney, and gave orders.
The heaviness of inactivity lifted. The room buzzed. The nurses stood by, while the staff did nurses’ work. The senior surgical interne, essaying assistance, was shoved aside by the senior surgical consultant, and stood by, aggrieved.
It was the Lamb, after all, who brought the news to Sidney. The new activity had caught Dr. Ed, and she was alone now, her face buried against the back of a chair.
“There’ll be something doing now, Miss Page,” he offered.
“What are they going to do?”
“Going after the bullet. Do you know who’s going to do it?”
His voice echoed the subdued excitement of the room—excitement and new hope.
“Did you ever hear of Edwardes, the surgeon?—the Edwardes operation, you know. Well, he’s here. It sounds like a miracle. They found him sitting on a bench in the hall downstairs.”
Sidney raised her head, but she could not see the miraculously found Edwardes. She could see the familiar faces of the staff, and that other face on the pillow, and—she gave a little cry. There was K.! How like him to be there, to be wherever anyone was in trouble! Tears came to her eyes—the first tears she had shed.
As if her eyes had called him, he looked up and saw her. He came toward her at once. The staff stood back to let him pass, and gazed after him. The wonder of what had happened was growing on them.
K. stood beside Sidney, and looked down at her. Just at first it seemed as if he found nothing to say. Then:
“There’s just a chance, Sidney dear. Don’t count too much on it.”
“I have got to count on it. If I don’t, I shall die.”
If a shadow passed over his face, no one saw it.
“I’ll not ask you to go back to your room. If you will wait somewhere near, I’ll see that you have immediate word.”
“I am going to the operating-room.”
“Not to the operating-room. Somewhere near.”
His steady voice controlled her hysteria. But she resented it. She was not herself, of course, what with strain and weariness.
“I shall ask Dr. Edwardes.”
He was puzzled for a moment. Then he understood. After all, it was as well. Whether she knew him as Le Moyne or as Edwardes mattered very little, after all. The thing that really mattered was that he must try to save Wilson for her. If he failed—It ran through his mind that if he failed she might hate him the rest of her life—not for himself, but for his failure; that, whichever way things went, he must lose.
“Dr. Edwardes says you are to stay away from the operation, but to remain near. He—he promises to call you if—things go wrong.”
She had to be content with that.
Nothing about that night was real to Sidney. She sat in the anaesthetizing-room, and after a time she knew that she was not alone. There was somebody else. She realized dully that Carlotta was there, too, pacing up and down the little room. She was never sure, for instance, whether she imagined it, or whether Carlotta really stopped before her and surveyed her with burning eyes.
“So you thought he was going to marry you!” said Carlotta—or the dream. “Well, you see he isn’t.”
Sidney tried to answer, and failed—or that was the way the dream went.
“If you had enough character, I’d think you did it. How do I know you didn’t follow us, and shoot him as he left the room?”
It must have been reality, after all; for Sidney’s numbed mind grasped the essential fact here, and held on to it. He had been out with Carlotta. He had promised—sworn that this should not happen. It had happened. It surprised her. It seemed as if nothing more could hurt her.
In the movement to and from the operating room, the door stood open for a moment. A tall figure—how much it looked like K.!—straightened and held out something in its hand.
“The bullet!” said Carlotta in a whisper.
Then more waiting, a stir of movement in the room beyond the closed door. Carlotta was standing, her face
