At eleven o’clock the next morning—by which hour the world knew of his lordship’s accident—the great specialist had made his examination and was seated in the library with the two Torquay doctors.
“No,” said Sir Evered, a tall, thin, clean-shaven man, who was a personal friend of Lord Bracondale’s. “In my opinion an operation is not advisable. The case is a serious one, and full of grave danger. But I do not think we need despair. I’ll remain here, and by this evening I shall hope to see consciousness restored.” Then he added: “By the way, are there any good nurses in Torquay?”
“The Convent of Saint Agnes is quite close. They are a Nursing Order, as you know,” replied Dr. Wright-Gilson.
“Yes, and usually most excellent. We had better send for the Mother Superior and get her to give us two trustworthy nurses. Having myself had experience of them, I have always found them most painstaking, and in every way excellent.”
“That is also my own experience, Sir Evered. Several of my patients have employed them with great success.”
“Very well; we will have them.” And Jenner was at once called and sent with a note from the great surgeon to the Mother Superior.
Twenty minutes later the grave-faced directress, who wore her black habit and wide, white collar, and spoke with a very pronounced French accent, arrived, accompanied by Jean and Sister Gertrude, whom she introduced to the three medical men standing in the library.
And very soon afterwards Jean found herself installed in the big, handsome bedroom beside the unconscious Cabinet Minister.
The white, inanimate face lay upon the pillow with the pallor of death upon it, the sheet edged with broad lace having been turned down and carefully arranged by the head housemaid.