Death approved of Sir Richmond’s determination to see the Committee through. Our universal creditor gave this particular debtor grace to the very last meeting. Then he brushed a gust of chilly rain across the face of Sir Richmond as he stood waiting for his car outside the strangers’ entrance to the House. For a couple of days Sir Richmond felt almost intolerably tired, but scarcely noted the changed timbre of the wheezy notes in his throat. He rose later each day and with ebbing vigour, jotted down notes and corrections upon the proofs of the Minority Report. He found it increasingly difficult to make decisions; he would correct and alter back and then repeat the correction, perhaps half a dozen times. On the evening of the second day his lungs became painful and his breathing difficult. His head ached and a sense of some great impending evil came upon him. His skin was suddenly a detestable garment to wear. He took his temperature with a little clinical thermometer he kept by him and found it was a hundred and one. He telephoned hastily for Dr. Martineau and without waiting for his arrival took a hot bath and got into bed. He was already thoroughly ill when the doctor arrived.

“Forgive my sending for you,” he said. “Not your line. I know.... My wife’s G.P.—an exasperating sort of ass. Can’t stand him. No one else.”

He was lying on a narrow little bed with a hard pillow that the doctor replaced by one from Lady Hardy’s room. He had twisted the bed-clothes into a hopeless muddle, the sheet was on the floor.

Sir Richmond’s bedroom was a large apartment in which sleep seemed to have been an admitted necessity rather than a principal purpose. On one hand it opened into a business-like dressing and bath room, on the other into the day study. It bore witness to the nocturnal habits of a man who had long lived a life of irregular impulses to activity and dislocated hours and habits. There was a desk and reading lamp for night work near the fireplace, an electric kettle for making tea at night, a silver biscuit tin; all the apparatus for the lonely intent industry of the small hours. There was a bookcase of bluebooks, books of reference and suchlike material, and some files. Over the mantelpiece was an enlarged photograph of Lady Hardy and a plain office calendar. The desk was littered with the galley proofs of the Minority Report upon which Sir Richmond had been working up to the moment of his hasty retreat to bed. And lying among the proofs, as though it had been taken out and looked at quite recently was the photograph of a girl. For a moment Dr. Martineau’s mind hung in doubt and then he knew it for the young American of Stonehenge. How that affair had ended he did not know. And now it was not his business to know.

These various observations printed themselves on Dr. Martineau’s mind after his first cursory examination of his patient and while he cast about for anything that would give this large industrious apartment a little more of the restfulness and comfort of a sick room. “I must get in a night nurse at once,” he said. “We must find a small table somewhere to put near the bed.

“I am afraid you are very ill,” he said, returning to the bedside. “This is not, as you say, my sort of work. Will you let me call in another man, a man we can trust thoroughly, to consult?”

“I’m in your hands, said Sir Richmond. I want to pull through.”

“He will know better where to get the right sort of nurse for the case—and everything.”

The second doctor presently came, with the right sort of nurse hard on his heels. Sir Richmond submitted almost silently to his expert handling and was sounded and looked to and listened at.

“H’m,” said the second doctor, and then encouragingly to Sir Richmond: “We’ve got to take care of you.

“There’s a lot about this I don’t like,” said the second doctor and drew Dr. Martineau by the arm towards the study. For a moment or so Sir Richmond listened to the low murmur of their voices, but he did not feel very deeply interested in what they were saying. He began to think what a decent chap Dr. Martineau was, how helpful and fine and forgiving his professional training had made him, how completely he had ignored the smothered incivilities of their parting at Salisbury. All men ought to have some such training, Not a bad idea to put every boy and girl through a year or so of hospital service.... Sir Richmond must have dozed, for his next perception was of Dr. Martineau standing over him and saying “I am afraid, my dear Hardy, that you are very ill indeed. Much more so than I thought you were at first.”

Sir Richmond’s raised eyebrows conveyed that he accepted this fact.

“I think Lady Hardy ought to be sent for.”

Sir Richmond shook his head with unexpected vigour.

“Don’t want her about,” he said, and after a pause, “Don’t want anybody about.”

“But if anything happens-?”

“Send then.”

An expression of obstinate calm overspread Sir Richmond’s face. He seemed to regard the matter as settled. He closed his eyes.

For a time Dr. Martineau desisted. He went to the window and turned to look again at the impassive figure on the bed. Did Sir Richmond fully understand? He made a step towards his patient and hesitated. Then he brought a chair and sat down at the bedside.

Sir Richmond opened his eyes and regarded him with a slight frown.

“A case of pneumonia,” said the doctor, “after great exertion and fatigue, may take very rapid and unexpected turns.”

Sir Richmond, cheek on pillow, seemed to assent.

“I think if you want to be sure that Lady Hardy sees you again—... If you don’t want to take risks about that—... One never knows in these cases. Probably there is a night train.”

Sir Richmond manifested no surprise at the warning. But he stuck to his point. His voice was faint but firm. “Couldn’t make up anything to say to her. Anything she’d like.”

Dr. Martineau rested on that for a little while. Then he said: “If there is anyone else?”

“Not possible,” said Sir Richmond, with his eyes on the ceiling.

“But to see?”

Sir Richmond turned his head to Dr. Martineau. His face puckered like a peevish child’s. “They’d want things said to them...Things to remember...I CAN’T. I’m tired out.”

“Don’t trouble,” whispered Dr. Martineau, suddenly remorseful.

But Sir Richmond was also remorseful. “Give them my love,” he said. “Best love...Old Martin. Love.”

Dr. Martineau was turning away when Sir Richmond spoke again in a whisper. “Best love...Poor at the best....” He dozed for a time. Then he made a great effort. “I can’t see them, Martineau, until I’ve something to say. It’s like that. Perhaps I shall think of some kind things to say—after a sleep. But if they came now...I’d say something wrong. Be cross perhaps. Hurt someone. I’ve hurt so many. People exaggerate...People exaggerate—importance these occasions.”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Dr. Martineau. “I quite understand.”