Char replaced the receiver, feeling dazed. Involuntarily her first sensation was one of injury that any one should be more ill than she was herself, and able to excite so much stir. The next moment she regained possession of herself. "Miss Jones, ring up the garage and tell them to send my car round immediately. Sir Piers Vivian has been taken ill, and I am going out to Plessing at once. Tell them to hurry." Grace obeyed, and Char began feverishly to make order amongst the pile of papers on her table. "I'm leaving a lot undone," she muttered, "but I suppose I shall be here tomorrow morning. I must be." Ten minutes later the car was at the door. "Miss Jones, see that all _these_ go tonight," Char rapidly instructed her secretary. "The letters I haven't been able to sign must be held over till tomorrow. By the way, didn't the--er--your Hostel Superintendent say that she wanted an appointment with me this evening?" "Mrs. Bullivant? Yes. She was coming at eight." "Then, please tell her what's happened, and say that I will arrange to see her some time tomorrow. That's all, I think." "I hope Sir Piers Vivian will be better by the time you get back." "I hope so. Thank you. Good-night, Miss Jones." Char hurried downstairs, hoping that the tone of her voice had put Miss Jones into her proper place again. She did not encourage personal amenities between herself and her staff. It was nearly nine o'clock before she got to Plessing. It had taken a long while to find Dr. Prince, and the chauffeur drove with maddening precautions through a thick wet mist along the sodden, slippery roads. "A broken leg or two would delay us worse," said the doctor philosophically. He was a bearded, hard-working man, with a reputation that extended beyond the Midlands. After finding out from Char that she knew little or nothing of her father's state of health, he asked her with a quick look: "And yourself, Miss Charmian? You look rather washed out." Char gave a short, hoarse cough, semi-involuntary, at this unflattering description. "I'm afraid I'm in the midst of an influenza attack. My staff have all been down with it, more or less. However, I can't afford to give way to that sort of thing now; there's far too much work to be done." "You ought to take six months' holiday," said the doctor decidedly, and relapsed into silence. Char wondered if he were meditating an appeal to her. It must outrage his professional instincts to see any one looking as she did still upon her feet. The doctor, however, who had been up since two o'clock that morning, was merely trying to snatch some sleep. He had known Char Vivian all her life, and had no thought whatever of wasting appeals upon her. At Plessing, Trevellyan met them in the hall. "Good-evening, Char," he greeted her. "Sir Piers is much the same. Not conscious. Will you go up, doctor? They'll have some dinner ready by the time you come down. I'm afraid you've had a cold drive."