Marc smiled with hypocritical innocence. "No," he said. "That's what I've been trying to get through your thick skull." He pointed to George. "That's Pillsworth there on the floor. And if you ask me he's in a pretty critical condition. You'd better start sawing away at him right now before he pops off of natural causes and robs you of the sport."
"Oh, my word!" the doctor gasped. "How can I ever tell you...!"
"Come," Marc said grandly, turning to Toffee, "let's leave this blood-splattered slaughter house."
"I'm all for it," Toffee said gaily. "Let's flee."
"I thought you didn't know that woman," the doctor said confusedly.
"I begin to recognize her now," Marc replied urbanely. "It was my horror at the crass brutality of the medical profession that drove her tender memory from my mind."
"But, I ..." the doctor began hopelessly.
"Say no more," Toffee said airily. "You can tell your side of it in court."
The two of them, linking arms, started toward the door. They were just about to sweep out of the room when suddenly the situation hit a new snag. It was at this juncture that George opened his eyes, waggled them around woozily, then reared up in a sitting position, staring at Marc.