his contact with it. He had taken one look at the muddied and clay-coloured face of the man, felt his pulse, and sent for one of the house-physicians to give him an anæsthetic. Then, with the patient safely under the anæsthetic Kit seemed conscious of nothing but that smashed and torn limb waiting for his purposeful and methodical hands.
He had ligatured the artery and was cleaning up the pulped muscles when he was aware of a quick turn of the sister's head. She seemed about to speak, but something or someone restrained her. And Kit was taking dressings from the sterilized boxes before he discovered Mr. Orange standing there, his face like a ghastly, pallid mask.
Kit's eyes asked a question.
"No,—carry on."
"I did not want to worry you, sir."
"No need—at all."
At the end of it all there came a sort of pregnant silence. Kit was peeling off his rubber gloves; the anæsthetist was feeling the patient's pulse, and watching Mr. Orange's face as though he expected a sardonic explosion. Rather cheeky of Sorrell tackling a case like this without a word to the "Orang."
Mr. Orange was looking thoughtfully at the splinted limb, his big head tilted forward. He said nothing, did not make a sound until Christopher was getting out of his white smock.
"All right. Nothing else, is there?"
"No, sir."
He turned abruptly and walked to the door, and Christopher did not see him for the next two days.
Three nights later Kit was called up on the telephone and was sent for to the porter's room.
"What is it, Hodges?"
"Mr. Orange, sir."
Kit put the receiver to his ear.
"Hallo."
He heard a rumbling and a squeakiness that was Simon Orange's voice.
