“Are you,” asks C 243, barring the way, “any relation to the deceased? By deceased,” explains the constable, giving additional information with great wariness, “he doesn’t, of course, mean deceased exactly, but nearly as good as that; he means old gentleman—white-haired old gentleman—that was knocked down by a cab in the Strand not half an hour ago, as he stooped down in the middle of the roadway to pick up a halfpenny he dropped. Happened just at the corner of Wellington Street, it did. Knew the old chap by sight. One of what C 243 ventures to call the regulars. See them every day between Bedford Street and Wellington Street. You don’t know their names, of course,” says constable argumentatively, “but, bless your soul, you know their faces so well that, when one of them drops out, it makes you feel as though you’ve lost a personal friend. Every one of them on the cadge, so C 243 understands, and apparently manage to live on by borrowing from each other. A rum life, if ever there was one; no two ways about that.” “Is he still able to recognise—?” “Old chap’s first words were ‘Not a hospital; take me home.’ Constable inquired where was home, and old chap managed to give the address. Whereupon constable, after deliberation with a colleague, decided to take four-wheeler and see old chap home as desired. Thought, perhaps, he was only a bit stunned. Or, perhaps, dazed. Instead of which, coming past the Obelisk, old chap suddenly lurched forward, and—” The small servant came out and beckoned. The voice of Rosalind called gently. “I am here,” replies Erb. “Want you just one moment.” A boy doctor who stood inside the room, endeavouring to wear a look of uncountable years, nodded curtly, and went to the foot of the sofa. On the sofa lay the Professor, with a rug thrown over him, the rug close up to his chin, one hand free, and travelling restlessly over the pattern. “That bourne,” whispered the Professor, “from which no traveller— You are a good lad, and you will look after her.” “If she’ll let me,” says Erb. “How are you feeling, sir, by this time?” “Look after her better than I have done. See that when you arrive at my state, laddie, you—you can glance back on your life with content.” Erb, with a kindly touch, pushed the Professor’s hair from his eyes, and the old man looked up gratefully. Erb touched his hand, and the hand gripped his as though with desire to attach itself to something reliable. “I’m slipping,” said the Professor simply. He closed his eyes, and presently reopened them as with difficulty. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Give me the word, sir, give me the word. What in Heaven’s name,” with sudden indignation, “is the use of having a prompter if—” Rosalind, keeping her tears back, came with the heavy volume, opening it quickly at the place where a ringletted youth in a steel engraving was addressing soldiers.