The doctor's reply was grave.
"Yes, Reed. Upon the knees of Allah and within the hands of modern science. They are bound to work together, in a case like this."
The grip upon Reed's shoulder tightened for a minute. Then it fell away, and again the supple fingers shut upon Reed's wrist.
"It's no especial use to preach to you about keeping up your courage, Reed. You're bound to do that, being you. I only wish I could have given you a squarer answer to your question; but—I can't. Now, about the surgeons: you'd like to have them come up again?"
Reed shook his head, and the gesture was a weary one.
"No use, doctor. I believe you—now. I had thought you were putting me off, out of a mistaken sense of friendship, and that I'd be able to worm the facts of the case from them. However, now you admit that the present uncertainty is the worst thing of all, I'm ready to take your word—only—it hurts! All night, I've been bracing myself to take it, and now nobody knows when it will come, or how." For a little while, he lay quite still; and the doctor sat still beside him, waiting. At last, Reed looked up with a forced alertness. "How is Olive?" he inquired, quite in his ordinary tone.
Instantly the doctor's face changed, lost its look of waiting strain, grew frankly worried.
"Reed, I wish I knew," he said.
"Is she ill?" Opdyke's voice sharpened.
"No; she's all right, only something has upset her. Didn't she come here, yesterday? No? I thought she was in here, every day; and maybe that—" The doctor checked himself abruptly.