“But in this instance the operation has no chance whatever of success.  The stump of a limb amputated in childhood does not keep pace with the rest of the body-growth.  And we should be trying to graft the legs of a grown man upon the hips of a child.  It seems, therefore, that I have brought you here under false pretenses.  Technically I am going to commit a crime—­I am going to perform an operation not thought of or sanctioned by the patient.  But my conscience is clear.  When I examined the child Blizzard after he had been run over, I did not give the attention which would be given nowadays to minor injuries, bruises, and contusions which he had sustained.  From all accounts the boy was a good boy up to the time of his accident.  In taking off his legs I have blamed myself for the whole of his subsequent downfall.  I think I have been wrong.  The man was once arrested for a crime, and freed on police perjury.  During his incarceration, however, accurate measurements and a description of him were made.  Only to-day a copy of this document has been shown to me, by a gentleman high in the secret service.  And it seems that Blizzard is differentiated from other legless men, by a mole under one arm, and by a curious protuberance on the back of his head—­and I believe that his moral delinquency is not owing to the despair and humiliation of being a cripple, but to skull-pressure upon the brain.”

The three young surgeons looked at each other.  One of them started to voice a protest.

“But, doctor—­it’s—­you’re asking a good deal of us.  I don’t know that I personally—­”

Three knocks sounded quietly on a door of the room.  Dr. Ferris, breaking into a smile of relief, sprang to open it.

In the rectangle appeared Lichtenstein; he was dripping wet from head to foot and carried in one hand a heavy blue automatic.

“’Fraid you couldn’t make it,” exclaimed the surgeon.

“Had to dynamite a safe down in the cellar—­hear anything?”

Dr. Ferris shook his head, and turned to the others.

“Mr. Lichtenstein,” he said, “of the secret service ...  Lichtenstein, some of these youngsters don’t want to mix up in this.  Tell them things.”

Lichtenstein smiled broadly.  “Then I’ll have to operate,” he said.  And he lifted his pistol ostentatiously.  “Young men,” he went on, “if you aren’t willing to make a decent citizen of Blizzard, why I must arrest him, and send him to the chair, or if he resists arrest, I must make a decent dead man of him—­”

In the distance there rose suddenly the powerful cries of the legless man.  “All ready,” he cried, “bring on your ether.”

“Who’s going to help me?” asked Dr. Ferris.

The three young surgeons stepped quickly forward.

“Good,” said Dr. Ferris.  “He’s strong as a bull.  You come with me, Jordyce, and you two wait within hearing just outside the door.”

“One moment,” said Lichtenstein, “where’s young Allen?”