“You had better turn home, sir, I can manage now.”
Murchison rose wearily and went to wash his hands.
“You must be fagged, Inglis,” he retorted.
“Not a bit of it,” and the theorist displayed more courage now that the responsibility was on other shoulders.
“You might stay for an hour or two. I left word in Roxton for Nurse Sprange to come out. You must put up with the old ladies’ tongues.”
The assistant frowned slightly as he recollected Mrs. Baxter and her sister.
“You will see them, Murchison, before you go?”
“Yes, of course.”
The two shallow-chested women were waiting for news in the hideous parlor. Even Mrs. Baxter’s stupidity could not ignore the look of distress on Murchison’s face. By the time the doctors had taken, she guessed that an operation had been performed, and by Murchison’s manner that it had not proved successful.
“Well, doctor, bad news, I suppose?”