"
"An operation!" Babbacombe exclaimed, aghast.
"It is absolutely imperative," the doctor said, "to get at the seat of
the poison. I am making every effort to prevent the mischief spreading
any further. Should the operation fail, no power on earth will save her
hand. It may mean the arm as well."
Babbacombe listened to further explanations, sick at heart.
"When do you propose to move her?" he asked presently.
"At once. I am going now to make arrangements."
"May I go in and see her if she will admit me?"
"I don't advise it to-night. She is excited and overstrung. To-morrow,
perhaps, if all goes well. Come round to my house at two o'clock, and I
will let you know."
But Babbacombe did not see her the next day, for it was found advisable
to keep her absolutely quiet. The doctor was very reticent, but he
gathered from his manner that he entertained very grave doubts as to the
success of his treatment.
On the day following he telephoned to Babbacombe to meet him at the home
in the afternoon.
Babbacombe arrived before the time appointed, and spent half an hour in
sick suspense, awaiting the doctor's coming.
The latter entered at last, and greeted him with a serious face.
"I am going to let you see Miss Mortimer," he said. "What I feared from
the outset has taken place. The mischief was neglected too long at the
beginning. There is nothing for it but amputation of the hand.
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