The nurse, startled and afraid, stood suddenly beside Sanderson's bed. It was as though she were attempting to shield the aviator from the surgeon's baleful look.
With a stern hand Doctor Herschall put her aside, so that he might have an unobstructed view of Sanderson's countenance.
"We are about to relieve you, Herr Lieutenant, of that uncomfortable cast you wear," the surgeon said harshly. "Sit up."
The aviator, not at all prepared for what was to follow, obeyed the order. Swiftly Doctor Herschall unbuttoned the loose shirt Frank wore and stripped bare the young man's muscular shoulder. But it was the left shoulder he uncovered!
Belinda sprang forward with a muffled cry. The Herr Doktor's long digit was planted firmly upon the puckered, red scar on the aviator's bared shoulder—the mark of the wound treated in the hospital in New York eight months and more before.
"Ach!" Doctor Herschall said. "So I thought." He turned and looked at Ernest, who had come back to his cot and sat there, watching the surgeon with frightened eyes.
"Well!" the Herr Doktor exploded, "what is it? What happened here last night? What do you know of this murder?"
"He—he," stammered Ernest, pointing to the aviator. "A man came into the ward when all were asleep. He came to Thirty-four and woke him. They talked."
"In German?"
"No, Herr Doktor. Nor in French. In that strange talk they say is Amerikanisch."