The young surgeon held out his hands to his patient.
“Give me your full confidence, Mr Masters,” he said, “work with me, and I can cure you.”
“Right, my lad. But you had it before,” he cried, grasping the hands extended to him. “I trust you, boy, as I always did your father—God bless him! Now, no more talking. Get to work. I won’t holloa. Where are you going?”
“Only down to the drawing-room to fetch the nurse.”
“Ring for her—she’s downstairs.”
“I mean the other—the professional nurse whom I brought with me.”
“What for?”
“To help me now, and to attend you for a few days afterwards exactly as I wish.”
“Two nurses? One has nearly killed me. Two will be downright murder.”
“No, sir,” said Michael Thorpe, smiling. “The good in one will neutralise all the ill that there may be in the other.”