e. He
remembered the grim black reason for the change in Saxham, and for once,
his habitual tact deserted him. His rosy gills purpled, even as had the
Mayor's on the Dop Doctor's entrance. His eyes winced under the heavy
petrifying, unseeing stare of Saxham's blue ones....

"Sorry to stem the flood of your reminiscences, McFadyen, but we're going
to overhaul the Hospital now."

It was the voice of the visitor who had come to the Harris Street house on
the previous night, the tall, loosely-built, closely-knit figure in the
easily fitting Service-dress that now stepped across the gulf that had
suddenly opened between the two old friends, and laid a hand in pleasant,
familiar fashion upon Saxham's heavy, rather bowed shoulders. But for that
scholar's stoop they would have been of equal height. He went on: "You
will be able to give us points, Saxham, where they will be needed most.
Can't expect Colonial institutions, even at the best, to keep abreast of
London."

The blue eyes met his almost defiantly.

"As I think I remember telling you, sir, it is five years since I saw
London."

"Well, I don't blame you for taking a long holiday while it was
procurable. There are a few of us who would benefit by a gallop without
the halter, eh, Taggart?"

Saxham would not stoop even to benefit indirectly by the shrewd, kindly
tact. He drew himself to his full height, and the words were spoken with
such ringing clearness that they arrested the attention of every man
present.

"My holiday was compulsory. I underwent--innocently--a legal prosecution
for malpractice. The Crown Jury decided in my favour, but my West End
connection was ruined. I resigned my Hospital and other appointments, and
left England."

"Ay!" It was the Chief Medical Officer's broad Scots tongue that droned
out the bagpipe note. "Weel, Doctor, it's an ill wind blaws naebody guid,
and ye canna expect Captain McFadyen or mysel' to sympatheese overmuch wi'
the West End for a loss that is our gain. And, Colonel, it's in my memory
that ye had set your mind on beginnin' wi' the Operating Theatre?..."

XXV

The chart-nurse looked in to say that the Medical officers of the Garrison
Staff were making the rounds, and was stricken to the soul by the
discovery that the Reverend Julius Fraithorn had had no breakfast.
Occupying a small, single-cotted, electric-bell-less room in the outlying
ward--brick-lined and corrugated-iron-built like the greater building, and