So first she went to the staff and confronted them. They were men of courage, only declining to undertake what they considered hopeless work. The one man among them who might have done the thing with any chance of success lay stricken. Not one among them but would have given of his best—only his best was not good enough.
“It would be the Edwardes operation, wouldn't it?” demanded Carlotta.
The staff was bewildered. There were no rules to cover such conduct on the part of a nurse. One of them—Pfeiffer again, by chance—replied rather heavily:—
“If any, it would be the Edwardes operation.”
“Would Dr. Edwardes himself be able to do anything?”
This was going a little far.
“Possibly. One chance in a thousand, perhaps. But Edwardes is dead. How did this thing happen, Miss Harrison?”
She ignored his question. Her face was ghastly, save for the trace of rouge; her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Dr. Edwardes is sitting on a bench in the hall outside!” she announced.
Her voice rang out. K. heard her and raised his head. His attitude was weary, resigned. The thing had come, then! He was to take up the old burden. The girl had told.