“I didn't.”
“There was a queer factor in the case, one I felt from the first, though I couldn't put my finger on it. It was the thing that made me advise against operation.”
“I understand.”
“But of course there's no use crying over spilt milk; you did your best,” continued Grayson cheerfully. “Pretty little girl—plucky, too. Sorry to see her go.”
Burns nodded—and bolted. These Job's comforters—were they trying to make the thing seem even more unbearable than it already was? Certainly they were succeeding admirably. He went on about his work with set teeth, expecting at the next turn to run into Fields. He would undoubtedly find him at the hospital, ready to greet him with some croaking sympathy. True to his expectations Fields met him at the door. He himself was looking particularly prosperous and cheerful, as people have a way of appearing to us when our trouble is root theirs.
“Good morning, Doctor.” Fields shook hands, evidently trying to modify his own demeanour of unusual good cheer over a list of patients all safely on the road to ultimate recovery. “I want to express my regret over the way things came out last night. Mighty pretty operation—if it had succeeded. Sorry it didn't. Better luck next time.”
“Much obliged.” Burns had a bull-dog expression now. Not the most discerning observer would have imagined he felt a twinge of regret over his failure.
“Would you mind telling me what made you so confident that the spleen had nothing to do with the complication?” Fields inquired in a deprecatory manner which made Burns long to twist his neck.
“Did you suggest that it did—beforehand?”
“I believe I did—if I remember.”