“Keep your mouth closed,” the doctor said peremptorily. “No. A woman, with a fractured skull. Beautiful case. Van Kirk was up to his eyes and sent for me. Hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils—all the trimmings. Worked for two hours.”
“Did she recover?” McKnight put in. He was examining the doctor with a new awe.
“She lifted her right arm before I left,” the doctor finished cheerily, “so the operation was a success, even if she should die.”
“Good Heavens,” McKnight broke in, “and I thought you were just an ordinary mortal, like the rest of us! Let me touch you for luck. Was she pretty?”
“Yes, and young. Had a wealth of bronze-colored hair. Upon my soul, I hated to cut it.”
McKnight and I exchanged glances.
“Do you know her name, doctor?” I asked.
“No. The nurses said her clothes came from a Pittsburg tailor.”
“She is not conscious, I suppose?”
“No; she may be, to-morrow—or in a week.”