"Hm!" I muttered. "That sounds rather curious."
"Call it crazy, but I know what it is like! It is as if a hand were gripping lightly, shoving things aside, pulling at me, as if somebody—doctor, that hand is coming back!"
I looked sharply at him. No, he did not look silly. Of course, like other physicians, I knew that the imagination can produce astonishing delusions. But Pendleton did not seem to me to be of that sort.
"Strip and get up on the examining table," I ordered tersely.
With a sigh he obeyed. I could find little. The circular scar showed signs of disappearing. Below it the abdomen seemed faintly distended, but not enough to be symptomatic. The stethoscope revealed only the normal sounds, and palpation was similarly uninforming.
"Let's see what an X-ray will show," I suggested.
March 6, 1926.—Just examined the X-ray prints. Nothing important indicated, no signs of congestion as in a tumorous growth.
I went hack through the files for the X-rays taken last June. Comparison showed that some of the internal organs had been displaced. The stomach, for one, was pushed to the right a distance of nearly two inches.
This discovery surprized me, and in my astonishment I dropped the print. I bent down to pick it up, and jerked back in amazement. For from a distance I saw what had escaped me in a closer view: a hand was outlined within the body, to the left of the stomach.
I picked up the print and examined it carefully. No, it was not a positive structure. It was merely that certain structures had been pushed aside and that the vacated portion had the outline of a hand. No evidence of actual entity, only the handlike outline.
A puzzling case! Is Pendleton right in saying that the hand had returned? But it isn't an actual structure. A phantom, then?
March 15, 1926.—Pendleton complains of internal pains and difficulty in breathing. I have prescribed sedatives.
March 20, 1926.—Pendleton ordered to the hospital last night. Another X-ray taken, with orders to rush. Just examined the plate. The hand-shaped space has increased in size and has pushed upward. The technician called my attention to it. So she has noticed it, too! But there is no sign of a tumor. Just an, absence of structures, an outline of a hand. What to do?
March 22, 1926.—Pendleton suffering and in agony. "It's reaching for my heart!" he groaned. "Can't you do something, doctor?"
I gave him a strong sedative. After that I discussed with Brent the chances of an operation. But operate for what?
After that I went to the surgery and told the nurses of the possibility of operating on P. in a day or two. Miss Cummings, the chief surgical nurse, and her two assistants paled at the announcement, and then did something rather unethical. They refused.
"No," said Miss C., with a shiver. "No, doctor! I can't work with you on that case. I should' faint with terror."
Her two assistants expressed themselves similarly.
"Please, doctor! Don't ask me," said Miss Cummings. "I'll—I'll never forget how—how that—that thing seized my ankle." She collapsed at the recollection and began to cry softly.
"Do you wish Pendleton to die without a chance?" I asked gravely. "I must do something, I am afraid, but I do not know what to do. I do
