"I should sleep far better if I knew everything," I replied; "don't be foolish, nurse."
"What do you want to know?"
"Dr. Rhomboid has been here, I am told," I said. "What did he say about me? When I saw him in London he wrote my death-warrant."
"Now he has given you a reprieve," was her reply, "and more than a reprieve. In fact, he said that if you got through the operation you would live!"
I was not surprised; I felt that life, and not death, was surging within me.
"Don't try to keep things back from me, nurse," I said. "I remember everything that took place. I remember the struggle on the beach and the darkness which followed. Simpson tells me that I have been brought to Mr. Lethbridge's house, and that, as if by special Providence, Dr. Rhomboid was staying at the Tolgarrick Hotel. What was his verdict?"
"He sent for a London surgeon," said the nurse, "and he told us that if you recovered from the operation you would live. You have recovered."
"Then he made a wrong diagnosis in London. That means I had something growing in me, and now it's cut out I shall live?"
The nurse nodded and smiled.
"That's all I must tell you now," she said; "take this and go to sleep."