CHAPTER XXXV THE LETTER COMES As Diana and the great specialist passed through the lower hall the ambulance bell sounded, sharply. They mounted the stairs together. "Ambulance call from Euston Station," shouted the porter, from below. Diana sighed. "That will most likely mean another bad operation to-night," she remarked to Sir Deryck. "These fogs work pitiless havoc among poor fellows on the line. We had a double amputation this afternoon--a plate-layer, with both legs crushed. The worst case I have ever seen. Yet we hope to save him. How little the outside world knows of the awful sights we are suddenly called upon to face, in these places, at all hours of the day and night!" "Does it try your nerve?" asked the doctor, as they paused a moment at the entrance to the ward. Diana smiled, meeting his clear eyes with the steadfast courage of her own. "No," she said. "My hunting-field experiences stand me in good stead. Also, when one is responsible for every preparation which is to ensure success for the surgeon's skill, one has no time to encourage or to contemplate one's own squeamishness." The doctor smiled, comprehendingly. "Hospital life eliminates self," he said. "All life worth living does that," rejoined Diana, and they entered the ward. Half an hour later they stood together near the top of the staircase, talking, in low voices, over the case in which Sir Deryck was interested. They heard, below, the measured tread on the stone floor, of the ambulance men returning with their burden. It was the "call" from Euston Station. The little procession slowly mounted the stairs: two men carrying a stretcher, a nurse preceding, the house surgeon following. Diana rested her hand on the rail, and bent over to look. A slight, unconscious figure lay on the stretcher. The light fell full on the deathly pallor of the worn face. The head moved from side to side, as the bearers mounted the steps. One arm slipped down, and hung limp and helpless. "Steady!" called the house-surgeon, from below. The nurse turned, gently lifted the nerveless hand, and laid it across the breast. Diana, clutching the rail, gazed down speechless at the face, on which lay already the unmistakable shadow of death. Then she turned, seized Sir Deryck's arm, and shook it. "It is David," she said. "Do you hear? Oh, my God, it is David!" The doctor did not answer; but, as the little procession reached the top of the staircase, he stepped forward. "Found unconscious in the Liverpool train," said the house-surgeon. "Seems a bad case; but still alive." The bearers moved towards the ward; but Diana, white and rigid, barred the way. "Not here," she said, and her voice seemed to her to come from miles away. "Not here. Into the private ward." They turned to the left and entered a small quiet room. "It is David," repeated Diana, mechanically. "It is David." They placed the stretcher near the bed, which the nurse was quickly making ready.