"Hospital life eliminates self," he said.
"All life worth living does that," rejoined Diana, and they entered the ward.
Half an hour later they stood together near the top of the staircase, talking, in low voices, over the case in which Sir Deryck was interested. They heard, below, the measured tread on the stone floor, of the ambulance men returning with their burden. It was the "call" from Euston Station.
The little procession slowly mounted the stairs: two men carrying a stretcher, a nurse preceding, the house surgeon following.
Diana rested her hand on the rail, and bent over to look.
A slight, unconscious figure lay on the stretcher. The light fell full on the deathly pallor of the worn face. The head moved from side to side, as the bearers mounted the steps. One arm slipped down, and hung limp and helpless.
"Steady!" called the house-surgeon, from below.
The nurse turned, gently lifted the nerveless hand, and laid it across the breast.
Diana, clutching the rail, gazed down speechless at the face, on which lay already the unmistakable shadow of death.
Then she turned, seized Sir Deryck's arm, and shook it.