"Cui bono indeed, if it is bungled. If you could do it all yourself, good. But that is impossible. The world wants your skill to save life, not to destroy it. Fellowes is dead—does it matter so infinitely, whether by his own hand or that of another?"
"No, I frankly say I don't think it does matter infinitely. His type is no addition to the happiness of the world."
They looked at each other meaningly, and Mappin responded once again to Stafford's winning smile.
It pleased him prodigiously to feel Stafford lay a firm hand on his arm and say: "Can you, perhaps, dine with me to-night at the Travellers' Club? It makes life worth while to talk to men like you who do really big things."
"I shall be delighted to come for your own reasons," answered the great man, beaming, and adjusting his cuffs carefully.
"Good, good. It is capital to find you free." Again Stafford caught the surgeon's arm with a friendly little grip.
Suddenly, however, Mr. Mappin became aware that Stafford had turned desperately white and worn. He had noticed this spent condition when he first came in, but his eyes now rediscovered it. He regarded Stafford with concern.
"Mr. Stafford," he said, "I am sure you do not realize how much below par you are.... You have been under great strain—I know, we all know, how hard you have worked lately. Through you, England launches her ship of war without fear of complications; but it has told on you heavily. Nothing is got without paying for it. You need rest, and you need change."
"Quite so—rest and change. I am going to have both now," said Stafford with a smile, which was forced and wan.
"You need a tonic also, and you must allow me to give you one," was the brusque professional response.