bleakness of the hospital garden where the plane trees complained above the dingy asphalted paths. A grim and sooty rockery built of old bricks and clinker seemed to contain the corpses of a few miserable ferns. The porter, pushing open the swing-door of a red brick building, and catching sight of a nurse, called to her. "Mr. Sorrell's here. Tell Mr. Orange." But Orange was waiting. He appeared at the doorway of the sister's room half-way down the corridor, and beckoned, and to Sorrell he had the look of a man who had been fighting with his back to the wall.
"Come in here."
He closed the door, and stood with his big head hanging forward.
"Sorry; it is rather bad."
He did not look at Sorrell, who stood with a rather vacant and helpless air in the middle of the little room.
"Quick as you can. I may as well know."
"One of these septic cases. Kit was operating, and cut his left hand through the glove; scarcely noticed it—I dare say. A virulent bug. Cellulitis, left hand and arm. We have operated twice. Kennard and Sir Ormsby want the arm off at the shoulder."
Sorrell rocked slightly on his heels. He made a little sibilant sound as though he had drawn his breath in sharply.
"Left arm?"
"Yes. Seems to be the one chance of saving him, if it's done at once. What is called blood poisoning—colloquially—you know. Kit won't have it."
"No."
"Says he would rather go under than be a one-armed cripple,—career gone."
He looked up at Sorrell questioningly from under the dark briskness of his eyebrows.
"What do you think?"
Sorrell was the colour of linen, his face old and plaintive and grim.
"You mean—it is the only chance?"
"Afraid so."
"It might not be certain—even if?"
"No."
"Can I see him?"
"He wants to see you."
