"Tell me again. I mustn't make a mess of this."

"Dr. Wilson, the surgeon, has been shot," came slowly and distinctly. "Get
the staff there and have a room ready. Get the operating-room ready, too."

The Lamb wakened then, and roused the house. He was incoherent, rather, so
that Dr. Ed got the impression that it was Le Moyne who had been shot, and
only learned the truth when he got to the hospital.

"Where is he?" he demanded. He liked K., and his heart was sore within
him.

"Not in yet, sir. A Mr. Le Moyne is bringing him. Staff's in the
executive committee room, sir."

"But--who has been shot? I thought you said--"

The Lamb turned pale at that, and braced himself.

"I'm sorry--I thought you understood. I believe it's not--not serious.
It's Dr. Max, sir."

Dr. Ed, who was heavy and not very young, sat down on an office chair. Out
of sheer habit he had brought the bag. He put it down on the floor beside
him, and moistened his lips.

"Is he living?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I gathered that Mr. Le Moyne did not think it serious."

He lied, and Dr. Ed knew he lied.

The Lamb stood by the door, and Dr. Ed sat and waited. The office clock
said half after three. Outside the windows, the night world went
by--taxi-cabs full of roisterers, women who walked stealthily close to the
buildings, a truck carrying steel, so heavy that it shook the hospital as
it rumbled by.