"Well, Mr. Pillsworth!" he called with hateful professional joviality. "I see that we're up. How are we feeling after our little accident?" "Were you in it too?" Marc asked dryly, but the young man was not to be set aside with so trivial a rebuke. He, with his silly smile, thought Marc, had probably attended patients for years that hated his very guts. "We were very lucky," the fellow continued offensively. "Were we?" "Yes. You haven't really been hurt at all. According to the report, you've no internal injuries, and only a few bruises that won't show at all, since they're located...." "Never mind!" Marc cut in hastily, glancing toward the screen. "I'll find out where they are for myself." The interne lounged his way across the room, and dangerously rested his arm on the top edge of the screen. Marc wondered if he were going to have a relapse. He almost wished he were still unconscious. "I--I'll be permitted to leave the hospital, won't I?" he asked shakily. The young man nodded. "You're perfectly all right. You'll just need to take it easy for a day or so. We might have kept you here for observation, but the hospital is too crowded. We tried to call your wife, but she was out." "Fine!" said Marc. "And where is my brief case?" "Brief case?" the fellow asked stupidly. "Yes. Brief case. The one I was carrying when I was hit." "But there wasn't any." Marc felt a rush of terror which subsided almost immediately. It had probably been taken back to the office. After all, his name and address were all over the thing. Then, once again, his heart leaped to his throat, and the brief case was forgotten, as he saw the interne's hand slip lazily behind the screen. Marc needn't have worried himself about what was going to happen, for it happened instantly, and no one could have prevented it anyway. The young man's red face turned an extravagant shade of deep purple, as his anguished cry rang out through the room like a call from the damned. Moaning wretchedly, he bent double and pressed his injured hand between his knees. The screen tottered drunkenly for a moment, and then clattered to the floor to reveal Toffee engaged in a half-won battle to wedge herself into a stiffly starched nurse's uniform. The fire of virtuous outrage that blazed in Toffee's eyes, as she stepped over the screen, forcing her arm through a reluctant sleeve, clearly implied that, compared to her, Elsie Dinsmore was nothing more than a loose living slattern. "You bit me!" the interne wailed. "You bet I did!" snapped Toffee. "And next time you come groping around where I'm dressing, with those great hammy paws of yours, I'll gnaw them off clear up to the elbows!"