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twenty-three. One swab was missing!
      Paralyzed, she watched Prescott insert the first stitch, aware that no one but her had noted the nurse’s mistake; bound by every rule of training and tradition to be silent, yet knowing that she must speak or let the operation come ultimately to disaster. Clenching her hands tightly, she nerved herself to meet the ordeal, trying everything to spare her colleague. She edged forward unobtrusively, barely moved her lips as she whispered:
      “Nurse. There’s one swab missing.”
      “Silence,” said Prescott instantly. As he swung round to take the second suture, he sought icily for the offender. Then he paused, his hand arrested, his eyes searching her face. “What was it you said?”
      Without a drop of color in her cheeks Anne confronted him. “I’m sorry,” she faltered. “There are only twenty-three swabs accounted for.”
      “Nonsense!” The first exclamation came from the matron, outraged at such audacity. She turned angrily toward Anne.
      Prescott suppressed her with a gesture, suppressed the protests of Sister Carr. “Recount the swabs,” he said shortly.
      The swabs were recounted in the pail. And there were only twenty-three. Prescott said nothing. He turned to the table and once more placed his hand within the wound. When his long forefinger emerged, it brought forth the missing swab.
      There was one instant of sheer stillness, the like of which had never been before in that theatre. Then, without further words, Prescott went on to complete the operation.
      “He ought to do well now,” he remarked quietly to the anesthetist when he had finished. To the theatre sister and the nurse he offered no reprimand whatsoever. With a last look at his patient he slipped unobtrusively through the door. He did not so much as glance at Anne. She was convinced that he had dismissed the incident from his mind as something unpleasant, something best forgotten. She did not know that Robert Prescott forgot nothing which had its bearing on his work—and the burning light of his ambition.
     
    CHAPTER 13
      After eight weeks at Hepperton, Anne became increasingly anxious because of the scarcity of news from Lucy. Though she wrote twice a week, her sister’s replies were sketchy and infrequent. Then one morning toward the end of March a letter brought news that was little short of staggering.
      “Dear Anne,” Lucy wrote. “No doubt it will be a bit of a shock, but I hope you will be pleased to hear that Joe and I are married. You see, not long after you left, Joe’s father died. I meant to write you at the time. Well, the old man left quite a bit of money, and Joe, being sick of Shereford, sold the business. He kept asking me to marry him, as he wanted to make a fresh start in a big way in London. So in the end I gave in, and we ran off to London to get the knot safely tied. I am very happy, and Joe is a dear. He is going into a thing called Transport, Limited, just his line and there’s a lot of money in it.
      “We have taken a pet of a house in Muswell Hill and I am having the time of my life choosing curtains and rugs and furniture and everything. Joe gave me the most expensive”— the adjective was twice underlined—“silver-fox fur as a wedding present, also a fitted dressing case. It’s a gem. I know you will be sick at my giving up nursing, especially after what you did for me ”—this phrase also was underlined—“but you will be glad to hear I took my certificate before I left the County and have got it with me, for better or worse. So I did not let you down so badly after all.
      “Do come and see us whenever you can get away. The address is 7 Elthreda Avenue, London, N. 10.”
      A postscript was added, “Joe sends his most affectionate regards.”
      Anne dropped the letter in sheer bewilderment mingled with a sense of hurt that Lucy had not given her the news till this late hour. Next came a spasm of pain as she thought of the