"He-is—dead," said Allison, with difficulty. "Nothing else—could take- him-away—now."
"No," she assured him, "you must believe me. He's all right. Everybody else is all right and we hope you soon will be."
"No use—talking of—it," he breathed, hoarsely. "I know."
Singly, by twos and even threes, the strange men continued to come from the City. Allison submitted wearily to the painful examinations that seemed so unnecessary. Some of the men seemed kind, even sympathetic. Others were cold and impassive, like so many machines. Still others, and these were in the majority, were almost brutal.
It was one of the latter sort who one day drew a chair up to the side of the bed with a scraping noise that made the recumbent figure quiver from head to foot. The man's face was almost colourless, his bulging blue eyes were cold and fish-like, distorted even more by the strong lenses of his spectacles.
"Better have it over with," he suggested. "I can do it now."
"Do what?" asked Allison, with difficulty.
"Amputate your hand. There's no chance."
The blue and white young woman then on duty came forward. "I beg your pardon, Doctor, but Colonel Kent left strict orders not to operate without his consent."
The strange man disdained to answer the nurse, but turned to Allison again. "Do you know where your father can be reached by wire?"