"Poor fellows, they did look bad! Did you see one chap, quite a young fellow, too, with his poor leg and all...." Char turned away impatiently. Thank Heaven, there was nothing further for her to do at the station. The work at the office would be heavy enough, but at least she had not to stand amongst that noisy crew of workers round the big packing-cases and wash-tubs, each one screaming so as to make herself heard above the splashing water and clattered crockery. It did not occur to her, as the car took her swiftly back to the office, also to be thankful that neither had she to walk back, as they had, in the streaming rain and cold of the dark evening. She swallowed one of Miss Bruce's quinine tablets with her hot tea, but was unable to eat anything, and sat over her letters with throbbing temples and a temperature that she felt to be rising rapidly. She pored over each simplest sentence again and again, unable to attach any meaning to the words dancing before her aching, swimming eyes. Soon after half-past six Grace Jones came back from the station, her pale face glowing from the wind and rain, unabated vigour in her movements. "Have you only just got back?" "I had some tea downstairs. I've been in about ten minutes." Char raised her eyebrows with an expression that would have caused Miss Delmege ostentatiously to refrain from tea every day for a week, had it been directed towards herself. But Miss Jones only said tranquilly: "Is there anything that I can do for you?" "No. Yes. You can answer that telephone." The bell had suddenly sounded, and Char felt no strength to exert the swollen, aching muscles of her throat. Grace took up the receiver. "They want to speak to you from Plessing." Char checked an exclamation of impatience. If only Brucey wouldn't _fuss_ so! She might know by this time that it was of no use. "Please say that I can't take a private call from here. Ask if it's on business." She waited impatiently. "It's not on business--it's important. Lady Vivian is speaking." Char almost snatched the receiver. "What is it?" she asked curtly. "Is that you, Char?" came over the wires. "Miss Vivian speaking," returned Char officially, for the benefit of Miss Jones. "Your father is ill. He has had a very slight stroke, and I want you to bring out Dr. Prince in the car." "How bad is he? Have you had any one?" "Yes. Dr. Clark came up from the village, but he suggested sending for Dr. Prince at once. He is unconscious, of course, and there isn't any immediate danger; he may get over it altogether, but--this is the first minute I've had--I am going back to him now. Come as soon as you can, Char, and bring the doctor. I can't get him on the telephone, but you must get hold of him somehow." "Yes--yes. Is there anything else?" "Nothing now, my dear. By great good luck John is here, and most helpful. He carried your father upstairs. Only don't delay, will you?" "No. I'll come at once. Good-bye." "Good-bye."