"Maybe there is such a thing as duty," said he.
"Maybe I do owe it--to you. I've--not yet--paid enough. Very
well, then."
"Come," cried out Jamieson suddenly, "out you go on the table. Get
a hand under there, girl."
There was no word further spoken. Gently they aided the injured
man to his feet and helped him hobble through the hall and into the
great dining-room beyond, where stood the long table of polished
mahogany. Dunwody, swaying, leaned against it, while Jamieson
hurried to the window and threw up the curtains to admit as much as
possible of the light of late afternoon. Returning, he motioned
Dunwody to remove his coat, which he folded up for a pillow. The
remainder of his preparations necessarily were scant. Hot water,
clean instruments--that was almost all. An anaesthetic was of
course out of the question.
"Dunwody, we're going to hurt you a little," said Jamieson, at
last. "You've got to stand it, that's all. Lie down there on the
table and get ready.
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