"Put a pillow under my head, someone," suddenly bade the shadow of Allan Gerard's voice, across the hush. "And give me a cigarette."
There was a startled flurry in the room. Familiar enough with the last request from his masculine patients, the man at the table took a case from his own pocket and, lighting one of the cigarettes, stooped over the bed.
"Keep your grip on yourself," he approved brusquely. "But don't move."
It was in his left hand that Gerard took the tiny narcotic, his right arm and shoulder were a mere bulk of splints and linen bandages.
"Thanks," his difficult voice spoke again. "Now open that door and let everyone in—I want to talk to them."
"Mr. Gerard!"
His clear eyes, dark with suffering but absolutely collected, met the surgeon's.
"I've got to talk to them, doctor, and I may be out of my head or in a box, to-morrow. Let them in—the reporters, I mean."
The listeners gazed at each other, a shock ran through the group. Every man there knew Rupert's story of the accident, every man guessed that it was Gerard's own version that was to be given now. Someone offered Mr. Rose one of the horse-hair chairs, during the moment of rearrangement before the youngest of the doctors left the room. Only Corrie remained unmoved, not changing his position or looking at Gerard. There was a certain dignity of utter quiescence in his pose that comprehended neither defiance nor submission, but a strange, aloof patience.