"Indeed, I shan't!" Olga was almost in tears by this time. "Couldn't you
do it yourself with--with a forceps?"

"Afraid not," said Max.

He went to a cupboard and took out a bottle containing something which
he measured into a glass and filled up with water.

"Fortify yourself with this," he said, handing it to her, "while I
select the instruments of torture."

Olga shuddered visibly. "I don't want it. I only want to go."

"Well, you can't go," he returned, "until you have extracted that bit of
needle of yours. So drink that, and be sensible!"

He pulled out a drawer with the words, and she watched him, fascinated,
as he made his selection. He glanced up after a moment.

"Olga, if you don't swallow that stuff soon, I shall be--annoyed with
you."

She raised it at once to her lips, feeling as if she had no choice, and
drank with shuddering distaste.

"I always have hated _sal volatile_," she said, as she finished the
draught.

"You can't have everything you like in this world," returned Max