On the evening of the shooting at Schwitter's, there had been a late
operation at the hospital. Sidney, having duly transcribed her lecture
notes and said her prayers, was already asleep when she received the
insistent summons to the operating-room. She dressed again with flying
fingers. These night battles with death roused all her fighting blood.
There were times when she felt as if, by sheer will, she could force
strength, life itself, into failing bodies. Her sensitive nostrils
dilated, her brain worked like a machine.

That night she received well-deserved praise. When the Lamb, telephoning
hysterically, had failed to locate the younger Wilson, another staff
surgeon was called. His keen eyes watched Sidney--felt her capacity, her
fiber, so to speak; and, when everything was over, he told her what was in
his mind.

"Don't wear yourself out, girl," he said gravely. "We need people like
you. It was good work to-night--fine work. I wish we had more like you."

By midnight the work was done, and the nurse in charge sent Sidney to bed.

It was the Lamb who received the message about Wilson; and because he was
not very keen at the best, and because the news was so startling, he
refused to credit his ears.

"Who is this at the 'phone?"

"That doesn't matter. Le Moyne's my name. Get the message to Dr. Ed
Wilson at once. We are starting to the city."