The white-skirted, clean-looking doctor came briskly and noiselessly into the little room that opened off Ward No. IV in the Westminster Hospital as the clock pointed to nine o'clock in the morning, and the nursing-sister stood up to receive him.
"Good morning, sister," he said. "Any change?"
"He seemed a little disturbed about an hour ago by the bells," she said. "But he hasn't spoken at all."
Together they stood and looked down on the unconscious man. He lay there motionless with closed eyes, his unshaven cheek resting on his hand, his face fallen into folds and hollows, colourless and sallow. The red coverlet drawn up over his shoulder helped to emphasize his deadly pallor.
"It's a curious case," said the doctor. "I've never seen coma in such a case last so long."
He still stared at him a moment or two; then he laid the back of his hand gently against the dying man's cheek, then again he consulted through his glasses the chart that hung over the head of the bed.
"Will he recover consciousness before the end, doctor?"
"It's very likely; it's impossible to say. Send for me if there's any change."
"I mayn't send for a priest, doctor?" she said hesitatingly. "You know—-"
He shook his head sharply.