Minutes passed, and the skilled fingers were still baffled. Murchison straightened his back with a kind of groan.
“Wipe my forehead,” he said, curtly.
Inglis leaned forward, and wiped the sweat away with a napkin.
“Thanks,” and he went to work again, yet with a hand that trembled. That supreme self-control had deserted him for the moment. He seemed feverish and spasmodic, out of temper with the difficulties of the case.
“The devil take it! Ah—at last.”
He drew a relieved breath, his eyes brightening, his face clearing a little. The deft fingers had succeeded, and swabs and sponges were soon at work. Sweat dropped from his forehead into the wound, but Murchison did not heed it in his strained intentness.
“Pass me some sponges. Thanks. Count for me.”
More minutes passed before Murchison lifted his head with a great sigh of relief.
“Thank God, that’s over.”
“Shall I stop the chloroform?”