“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.