The doctor passed a trembling hand over his forehead and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. A tremor of frustration passed through his sturdy frame. He turned to the small blonde.
"Is Mrs. Pillsworth still in the waiting room?" he asked.
"I believe so, sir," the nurse said.
"Will you please call her in here to make an identification?"
"No!" Marc said, glancing uneasily in Toffee's direction. "Don't do that...! I mean there's no need to disturb Mrs. Pillsworth. Obviously this pitiful creature here on the floor is Pillsworth. Just by looking at him you can see he's under the weather."
At this George drew himself up sedately, stiffling a hiccough. "Nothing of the sort," he said piously. "I'm in perfectly splendid condition."
"Go ahead, nurse," the doctor said firmly. "Bring Mrs. Pillsworth."
"Yes, sir," the nurse said, and departed.
"But, you can't afford to delay the operation that long," Marc said. "You said so yourself. Anyone with half an eye can see that this poor man is getting more feeble by the second. You owe it to him to slit him open immediately...!" In speaking Marc had paused to look at George. The result was that the words froze on his lips. Never had he spoken more truly; George was not only getting more feeble but more non-existent by the second. His legs had evaporated to the knees, his arms were entirely gone. Where his eyes should have been there were now only empty sockets. Staring at this awesome demonstration, the doctor tottered slightly and braced himself against the operating table.
"Oh, good Lord!" he moaned.