Occasionally now, for a long time, there had been coming from the next
room the dink of steel against steel, a murmur of hushed voices, and a
sound of several pairs of feet moving softly. With the exception of two
cups of soup, Wilmot, in preparation for what he was to undergo, had had
nothing to eat. What with this and the natural commotion of revolt in
his whole nervous system, he was weak and faint.
The door opened, and Dr. Ferris came quietly into the room and bent over
him. He was in white linen from head to foot, and wore upon his hands a
pair of thin rubber gloves, glistening with the water in which they had
been boiling.
Prepared to find Wilmot, he naturally recognized him, in spite of the
beard which so changed the young man's face for the worse; but of this
recognition he gave no sign. The legless man, alert for any possibility
of self-betrayal on Wilmot's part, had followed him into the room. Dr.
Ferris spoke very quickly:
"My man," he said, "is it true that of your own free will, in exchange
for immunity and other benefits received, you consent to the amputation
of both your legs, as near the hip-joint as may be found necessary?"
Wilmot drew a long breath, focussed his mind upon bright memories of
Barbara, and slowly nodded.
"You are quite sure? You are holding back nothing? There has been no
coercion?"
"It's all right," chirped in Blizzard. "Glad of the chance to pay me
back, aren't you, my boy?"
For a moment Wilmot's eyes rested with a cold contempt on the beggar's.
And he thought, "to save her from that!" and once more nodded.
"Shall I tell them to bring the ether, doctor?"
Dr. Ferris turned his head slowly.
"What are _you_ doing here?" he said, in his smiling professional voice.
"You ought to be undressed, scrubbed, and ready for the anaesthetic
yourself."
"But I thought--I thought you'd make sure of the legs first, before you
did anything to me."
"The success of graftage," said the doctor, "lies in the speed with
which the parts to be grafted can be transferred from one patient to the
other. In this case, the two operations will proceed at the same
time--side by side. There are four of us, and two nurses to do what is
necessary--now if you will go and get ready."
"Frankly, doctor, do you think the chances of success are good?"
Dr. Ferris's voice rang out heartily. "Splendid!" he said, "splendid!"
He turned once more to Wilmot. "I am sorry for you," he said kindly,
"but you are willing that we should go ahead, aren't you?"
Blizzard stood, hesitating.
"Not losing your nerve?" asked the surgeon, and there was the least hint
of mockery in his voice.
"Hope this is the last time I have to walk on stumps," Blizzard
answered, and he began to move toward the door.
"I hope so, too, Blizzard," said Dr. Ferris, "with all my heart." And
with an encouraging nod to Wilmot he followed the beggar out of the
room, and closed the door behind him.
In the operating quarter were two nurses on whom Dr. Ferris had been
able to rely for many years, and three clean-cut young surgeons, in whom
he had detected more than ordinary talents.
"He said he'd send word when he was ready," said one of the nurses.
"Good," said Dr. Ferris, "for I have a few words to say to you all,
knowing that, because of the etiquette of our profession, these words
will not go any further."
For five minutes he spoke quietly and gravely. He told them his
relations with Blizzard since the beginning. And something of Blizzard's
relations, subsequent to the loss of his legs, with the rest of the
world. Then he explained the operation which he was _expected_ to
perform, enlarging upon both its chances for success and for failure.
And then, much to the astonishment of his audience, he brought his talk
to an end with these words:
"But in this instance the operation has no chance whatever of success.
The stump of a limb amputated in childhood does not keep pace with the
rest of the body-growth. And we should be trying to graft the legs of a
grown man upon the hips of a child. It seems, therefore, that I have
brought you here under false pretenses. Technically I am going to commit
a crime--I am going to perform an operation not thought of or sanctioned
by the patient. But my conscience is clear. When I examined the child
Blizzard after he had been run over, I did not give the attention which
would be given nowadays to minor injuries, bruises, and contusions which
he had sustained. From all accounts the boy was a good boy up to the
time of his accident. In taking off his legs I have blamed myself for
the whole of his subsequent downfall. I think I have been wrong. The man
was once arrested for a crime, and freed on police perjury. During his
incarceration, however, accurate measurements and a description of him
were made. Only to-day a copy of this document has been shown to me, by
a gentleman high in the secret service. And it seems that Blizzard is
differentiated from other legless men, by a mole under one arm, and by a
curious protuberance on the back of his head--and I believe that his
moral delinquency is not owing to the despair and humiliation of being a
cripple, but to skull-pressure upon the brain."
The three young surgeons looked at each other. One of them started to
voice a protest.
"But, doctor--it's--you're asking a good deal of us. I don't know that I
personally--"
Three knocks sounded quietly on a door of the room. Dr. Ferris, breaking
into a smile of relief, sprang to open it.
In the rectangle appeared Lichtenstein; he was dripping wet from head
to foot and carried in one hand a heavy blue automatic.
"'Fraid you couldn't make it," exclaimed the surgeon.
"Had to dynamite a safe down in the cellar--hear anything?"
Dr. Ferris shook his head, and turned to the others.
"Mr. Lichtenstein," he said, "of the secret service ... Lichtenstein,
some of these youngsters don't want to mix up in this. Tell
them things."
Lichtenstein smiled broadly. "Then I'll have to operate," he said. And
he lifted his pistol ostentatiously. "Young men," he went on, "if you
aren't willing to make a decent citizen of Blizzard, why I must arrest
him, and send him to the chair, or if he resists arrest, I must make a
decent dead man of him--"
In the distance there rose suddenly the powerful cries of the legless
man. "All ready," he cried, "bring on your ether."
"Who's going to help me?" asked Dr. Ferris.
The three young surgeons stepped quickly forward.
"Good," said Dr. Ferris. "He's strong as a bull. You come with me,
Jordyce, and you two wait within hearing just outside the door."
"One moment," said Lichtenstein, "where's young Allen?"
"In there," said Dr. Ferris.
"I'll just introduce myself," said the Jew, "and tell him what's up. He
must be in a most unpleasant state of mind."
To Wilmot there appeared the figure of a little stout man with red hair
and a pug nose, who was dripping wet, and who smiled in an
engaging fashion.
"You're safe as you'd be in your own house," said the kindly Jew; "no
ether--no amputation--no nothing. And here's a note from Miss Barbara.
I'm dripping wet, but I guess the ink hasn't run so's you can't
read it."
Wilmot read his note, and a great light of happiness came into his eyes,
"After a while," said Lichtenstein, "I'll hunt up more clothes for you,
and you can jump into a car and run out to Clovelly. Don't let Miss
Barbara see you in that beard, though."
"I won't," said Wilmot. "Tell me what's happened. Has Blizzard been
arrested? You're--"
"I'm Abe Lichtenstein--"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Wilmot, "if I'd only gone straight to you--"
"If you had you might never have known that Beauty would have married
the Beast--just to save young Mr. Allen pain. But why come to me?"
"With information from Harry West. He had run the whole conspiracy down.
It seems--"
"Names--did he give names?"
"Yes--unbelievable names."
Lichtenstein's eyes narrowed with excitement.
In the next room there arose suddenly the sound of many feet shuffling,
as if men were carrying a heavy weight, and presently the smell of ether
began to come to them through the key-hole. And they heard groans, and a
dull, passionless voice that spoke words of blasphemy and obscenity.