Maxine rose to meet him.
She read both good and bad news in his face.
“The operation has been successful, but there is great weakness.” He rolled an armchair for her to sit down, and then he told her as much as she could understand.
Thénard had found a slight depression of the inner table of the skull, and some congestion and thickening of the dura mater. It all dated from the accident. There would, without doubt, have been severe inflammation of the brain, but for Berselius’s splendid condition at the time of the accident, and the fact that Adams had bled him within an hour of the injury. Thénard had relieved the pressure by operation, but there was great weakness.
It was impossible to say what the result would be yet.
“Has he regained consciousness?”
“He is just recovering from the anæsthetic.”
The girl was silent for a moment, then she asked where Thénard was.
“He has left. He has to operate again to-night on a case which has just called for him by telephone. He asked me to tell you that everything possible has been done. He will call in the morning, and he has left everything till then in my hands.”
“I shall not go to bed,” said Maxine. “I could not sleep, and should my father want to see me, I shall be ready.”