"I do," said the doctor quietly. "I saw him just before I came over here to find you."
"Would you care to tell me what you think of his chances?"
"I—don't—know. He is in considerable pain. The wound continues healthy. They give him a great deal of morphia."
"Do you—believe——"
"I can't yet form an opinion worth giving you. Dillon, the assistant surgeon, is an old pupil of mine. He asked me to look in to-morrow; and I shall do so."
"I'm very glad. I was going to ask you. But—there's a good deal of professional etiquette in these hospitals——"
"It's everywhere," said the doctor, smiling. Then his pleasant, alert face changed subtly; he lifted the lantern absently, softly replaced it on the veranda beside him, and gazed at it. Presently he said:
"I came here on purpose to talk to you about another matter. . . . Shall we step inside? Or"—he glanced sharply around, lantern held above his head—"I guess we're better off out here."
Berkley silently assented. The doctor considered the matter in mind for a while, nursing his knees, then looking directly at Berkley:
"Phil, you once told roe a deliberate falsehood."