“Under Providence let us hope so!� said the Bishop, encircled by a halo of fragrant cigar smoke. “Thank you, yes, I will take a whisky-and-soda. Without presumption, let us hope so, remembering, trusting in—arah—the—arah—the Divine assurance.�
“You may take the assurance from me, my lord!� said the Distinguished Surgeon. He got up and went to the fireplace (carved by Adam), and leaned one elbow lightly on the mantelshelf—an easy attitude, but instinct with pride and power. “As I have said, Case One Thousand and One is a difficult case. I could name surgeons of repute who would have hesitated to operate; but, given the requisite skill and the necessary care, failure, I hold, is out of the question. I have never failed yet—I do not intend to fail. It’s impossible!�
The second shrill, imperative summons of the telephone bell ended the Distinguished Surgeon’s sentence.
“Tch! They’re ringing ye up on the telephone from somewhere,� said the Highgate Doctor.
“Find out what they want, Donald, there’s a good fellow,� said the Distinguished Surgeon, buttonholed by the Bishop, whose urbane benevolence had creased into smiles tinctured with roguishness, as he related a clerical after-dinner story.
And the Highgate Doctor rang back, and unhooked the receiver and cried: “Halloa?� and listened to the thin ghost of a voice that droned and tickled at his ear, and turned toward the Distinguished Surgeon a face that had suddenly been bleached of all color.
“Well, who is it?� the Distinguished Surgeon asked.
“It’s the House Surgeon at the Hospital. Perhaps ye would speak to him yourself?� the Highgate Doctor said thickly; and the Distinguished Surgeon, released by the chuckling Bishop, strolled over and took the Highgate Doctor’s place at the receiver.
“Halloa! Yes, it’s Sir Arthur Blank!� he called, and the ghostly voice came back.... “One of the abdominal sections in the Mrs. Solomon Davis Ward ... Number Seven ... Mrs. Reed ... Hæmorrhage.... Imminent danger ... collapse.... Come at once!�
The Distinguished Surgeon glanced round, with eyes that were sunk in pits quite newly dug. The Bishop, still in his anecdotage, was buttonholing the King’s Counsel. Plainly they had not overheard. And as the Distinguished Surgeon took out his handkerchief and wiped the cold damps from a face that had gone gray and shiny, he knew relief. He avoided looking point-blank at the Highgate Doctor as he made his courteous excuses to his guests. “An urgent case—suddenly called away for an hour. My dear Lord, my dear Entwhistle, my dear Donald, entertain yourselves for that space of time, and don’t deprive me of a pleasant end to this delightful evening!�