Chapter 7
“Um--hard luck that,” Peter Knott agreed. “But what’s to be done? Everybody’s in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they’re just as badly hit, aren’t they?”
“That depends--” David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his sentence. “The occasional--er--contributors--are having a bad time--but the regular journalists--the people on the staffs--are all right--of course I know cases--there’s a man called--er, let me see--I’ve got a letter from him somewhere--Wyatt’s his name--now, he’s--” David’s huge body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.
“By the way,” he remarked briskly, “I saw your friend Seaford yesterday.”
David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up at the name.
“Frank Seaford--oh, did you? How is he? I haven’t seen him for some time--”
“So I gathered,” Peter remarked dryly. “He seems to be getting on very well since Ringsmith took him up.”
“Ah! Ringsmith’s right. He’s a beautiful--artist. Did you--see--”
Peter interrupted. “I think I’ve seen all Seaford’s work. Anyhow he owes his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely on your recommendation two years ago. He’s sold a lot of pictures during that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?”
David stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Let me see--some time before the War--it must have been--more than a year ago.”
“Not very grateful,” Peter could not help rapping out.
David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.
“You’re quite wrong, Knott. He sent me--that exquisite study--on the wall yonder.” He pointed as he spoke to a small drawing in water colours.
Peter got up, looked at it a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.
“If you’re satisfied, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Satisfied--of course I’m satisfied--” A tolerant, almost condescending smile stole over David’s eyes and mouth. “You don’t understand--artists, Knott.”
“Perhaps not, perhaps not.” Knott pulled out his watch. “Anything doing in your own line, Saunderson?” he asked in a tone of careful indifference.
David puffed at his pipe.
“I’m not very busy--but--you know--that’s rather a good thing--now I’m a special constable.”
Peter Knott’s single eyeglass wandered over the unwieldy frame sitting opposite him.
“A special constable?” he echoed.
David puffed complacently.
“Sergeant,” he replied.
Peter Knott dropped his glass.
“Really, you know, Saunderson. For a man at your time of life, and obliged to work for his living, it’s--” He hesitated. “Well, you oughtn’t to do it.”
David smiled in a superior way.
“That’s just where--you’re wrong--Knott--we relieve the--younger men--that’s our job--and I’m proud to--”
Peter Knott’s kindly old eyes twinkled at the thought of David tackling a lusty cracksman, twinkled and then became grave.
“Supposing you get laid up, injured in some way?” he asked.
“We don’t think about that.” David’s expression was serene. “I go on--duty at--two--very quiet then--lovely it is--on fine nights--when I’ve been working--to get out--into the cool air--”
As David spoke Peter Knott pulled out his watch again and then got up.
“I saw your cousin Herbert a few days ago, Saunderson. He said he hadn’t seen you for a long time, wondered whether you’d go down to Rendlesham for a few weeks. He wants a catalogue of his prints, and there are some old manuscripts he would like your opinion about. I’m going down this week-end. What shall I tell him?”
David put down his pipe.
“Tell him--I’m much obliged--later on perhaps--I can’t--leave my duties--while these Zeppelin scares last. They need experienced men--one doesn’t know what--may happen.” He had got on his feet and had gradually reached the door of the tiny flat. “Good-bye, Knott,” he said as he took the other’s hand. “Don’t forget--about Macmanus and--Plimsoll--”
His visitor was two flights below when David called to him--
“If you happen--to hear of--a secretaryship--Wyatt’s--”
But by the time he got the words out Peter Knott was out of hearing.
In due course Peter Knott reported the result of his visit to Sir Herbert Saunderson. The latter, a kindly man with an income barely enough for the responsibilities a large family entailed on him, took counsel with his old friend as to what could be done next. There was reason for believing that David’s stolid silence regarding his own concerns concealed a general impecuniousness quite as pronounced as that of the artist friends whose cause he pleaded.
“Why not send him the prints with a cheque on account and say you need the catalogue soon, as you may make up your mind to sell them?”
“A capital idea,” replied the other, and the suggestion was promptly carried into effect.
* * * * *
One winter morning, some months afterwards, a seedy-looking individual called at Portland Place with a typewritten letter, requiring an answer.
Sir Herbert Saunderson, busy reading and signing letters, tossed it over to his secretary. The young lady read it aloud according to rule.
DEAR HERBERT [it ran],--
I have finished the catalogue, but there are one or two details which I should like to settle before sending it to the printers. My friend Mr. Wyatt, who has been kindly helping me with the work since my little accident, will explain the different points to you and take your instructions, I am so sorry I can’t come myself, but Mr. Wyatt is thoroughly competent and I can strongly recommend him if you have any other work of an analogous character.
Yours ever,
D.S.
The one ear with which Sir Herbert Saunderson was listening while he went on signing the papers before him had caught part though not all of the letter.
“Did I hear the word ‘accident,’ Miss Milsome?” he asked, looking up.
“Yes, Sir Herbert.”
“How did it happen? Let’s have a look.”
The busy man glanced through it.
“Send for Mr. Wyatt, please.”
The seedy little man entered and was asked courteously to seat himself.
“What has happened to my cousin?” asked Sir Herbert.
Mr. Wyatt seemed embarrassed by the question.
“The fact is, Sir Herbert,” he began hesitatingly, “Mr. Saunderson didn’t want much said about that. His great wish is that I should be given certain necessary data regarding the catalogue, but to tell you the truth--”
Mr. Wyatt stopped. There was a note of anxiety in his pleasant, cultivated voice.
Sir Herbert Saunderson and Miss Milsome exchanged glances.
“Pray don’t hesitate to tell me if anything is wrong with my cousin, Mr.--er--”
“Wyatt,” added Miss Milsome softly.
“I’m afraid he’s rather bad.”
The little man looked at Miss Milsome as he spoke. Her expression was sympathetic, and he continued--
“You know, I believe, that he has been a special constable?”
Sir Herbert Saunderson nodded.
“As sergeant, he had charge of the arrangements for reducing the lighting of the streets in his own district. One evening, about a month ago, he was returning from duty, when he slipped on a curbstone owing to the darkness. Fortunately it was close to his own place, and he was able, though with difficulty, to make his way slowly up to his flat. When I got there in the morning, at our usual hour for work, he was in great pain. He had injured his arm and right hand--twisted it in some way so that it was quite useless--”
Mr. Wyatt paused.
“I hope you sent for a doctor?” There was evident apprehension in Sir Herbert’s question.
“He absolutely refused to have one. He said he was only one of the light casualties, and that doctors must be spared in these times for important cases. He gave me quite a lecture about it. The charwoman came in with a laudanum dressing from the chemist, who, he said, was a friend of his, and just as good as a doctor.”
“But this is madness--simple madness!” Sir Herbert’s voice was agitated.
“Oh, his hand soon got better,” the little man broke in, “and the pain gradually eased off. In a couple of days he went on working again, but of course he couldn’t write. He joked about it. He seemed to like thinking he was in a sort of way in the firing line, as though he was slightly wounded.”
Mr. Wyatt laughed very softly.
“But I must see to this at once. Miss Milsome, kindly ring up Dr. Freeman. Tell him I’ll call for him.” Sir Herbert looked at his table, covered with papers, and then at his watch. His fine mouth closed firmly. “Now, at once, as soon as he can be ready.”
Miss Milsome took the telephone from the stand beside her.
Sir Herbert Saunderson rose hurriedly and rang the bell.
“The car, at once!” he ordered as the servant entered.
* * * * *
“It’s his heart I’m afraid of,” said Mr. Wyatt. He was sitting on the front seat of the landaulette, facing Sir Herbert Saunderson and Dr. Freeman. “I don’t think he knows how bad he is.”
They were already in Chelsea.
“I think it will be better if Mr. Wyatt and I go up together first,” the doctor suggested as they arrived at the door. “If his heart is weak, a sudden emotion might be injurious.”
“I quite agree,” Sir Herbert replied. “In fact, you need not mention my presence. I only want to know your opinion. Now that he will be in good hands I shall feel relieved.”
The doctor jumped out. Sir Herbert detained the other an instant.
“Please keep me informed, Mr. Wyatt. I’m very much indebted to you for telling me about this and for your care of my cousin.”
Mr. Wyatt acknowledged the courteous utterance with a deprecating gesture as they shook hands and followed quickly after the doctor, who was proceeding slowly up the steep staircase.
* * * * *
Sir Herbert Saunderson buried himself in _The Times_, always placed in his car. Suddenly he was disturbed. Mr. Wyatt, pale and hatless, stood on the pavement.
“We were too late!” He uttered the words in a whisper, which ended in a gulp.
The awed face told its own tale. Sir Herbert got out of his car and followed him without a word.
At the bedside the three men stood silently, reverently looking down on David Saunderson.
On his face that happy, superior smile seemed to say to them: “What a lucky fellow I am to have the best of it like this--and Wyatt provided for, too!”