satisfied. "A very neat piece of work!" Sebastian exclaimed, looking
on. "I congratulate you, Nielsen. I never saw anything done cleaner or
better."

"A successful operation, certainly!" the great surgeon admitted, with
just pride in the Master's commendation.

"AND the patient?" Hilda asked, wavering.

"Oh, the patient? The patient will die," Nielsen replied, in an
unconcerned voice, wiping his spotless instruments.

"That is not MY idea of the medical art," I cried, shocked at his
callousness. "An operation is only successful if--"

He regarded me with lofty scorn. "A certain percentage of losses,"
he interrupted, calmly, "is inevitable, of course, in all surgical
operations. We are obliged to average it. How could I preserve my
precision and accuracy of hand if I were always bothered by sentimental
considerations of the patient's safety?"

Hilda Wade looked up at me with a sympathetic glance. "We will pull her
through yet," she murmured, in her soft voice, "if care and skill can do
it,--MY care and YOUR skill. This is now OUR patient, Dr. Cumberledge."

It needed care and skill. We watched her for hours, and she showed no
sign or gleam of recovery. Her sleep was deeper than either Sebastian's
or Hilda's had been. She had taken a big dose, so as to secure
immobility. The question now was, would she recover at all from it? Hour
after hour we waited and watched; and not a sign of movement! Only the