The eyes were dull and listless, but when their glance fell on me, they literally flashed fire and a hard, determined look came into them.
“Dear,” said her husband, bending tenderly down to her, “who did you say performed that operation?”
“Dr. Harrington,” she whispered.
“I have brought him here. Is that the person who operated?”
“Yes.”
My heart just at that moment went as cold as a snowball. I saw myself ruined, broken on the wheel of Fate. The death phase of the situation didn’t matter. Worst of all, I now saw the motive. She was shielding some bungler, near, or more probably dear, to her—I was the victim selected by mere horrible chance.
I crossed softly to the bed. “Madam,” I said to her as gently as my tumult of feeling would permit, “I implore you to tell the truth. Did I perform this operation?”
With absolute self-possession she whispered, “Doctor, you did.”
I was helpless; it was a fine illustration of the terrible power of the lie as a weapon against right and honor.
“I assure you, before God,” I declared, turning to the husband, “that I was not the operating surgeon in this case. You know, possibly, my reputation for professional skill. Will you then permit me to take your wife’s temperature and to make a very brief examination with a view to determining the probable effect of her condition upon her rational faculties?”