“He absolutely refused to have one. He said he was only one of the light casualties, and that doctors must be spared in these times for important cases. He gave me quite a lecture about it. The charwoman came in with a laudanum dressing from the chemist, who, he said, was a friend of his, and just as good as a doctor.” “But this is madness--simple madness!” Sir Herbert’s voice was agitated. “Oh, his hand soon got better,” the little man broke in, “and the pain gradually eased off. In a couple of days he went on working again, but of course he couldn’t write. He joked about it. He seemed to like thinking he was in a sort of way in the firing line, as though he was slightly wounded.” Mr. Wyatt laughed very softly. “But I must see to this at once. Miss Milsome, kindly ring up Dr. Freeman. Tell him I’ll call for him.” Sir Herbert looked at his table, covered with papers, and then at his watch. His fine mouth closed firmly. “Now, at once, as soon as he can be ready.” Miss Milsome took the telephone from the stand beside her. Sir Herbert Saunderson rose hurriedly and rang the bell. “The car, at once!” he ordered as the servant entered. * * * * * “It’s his heart I’m afraid of,” said Mr. Wyatt. He was sitting on the front seat of the landaulette, facing Sir Herbert Saunderson and Dr. Freeman. “I don’t think he knows how bad he is.” They were already in Chelsea. “I think it will be better if Mr. Wyatt and I go up together first,” the doctor suggested as they arrived at the door. “If his heart is weak, a sudden emotion might be injurious.” “I quite agree,” Sir Herbert replied. “In fact, you need not mention my presence. I only want to know your opinion. Now that he will be in good hands I shall feel relieved.” The doctor jumped out. Sir Herbert detained the other an instant. “Please keep me informed, Mr. Wyatt. I’m very much indebted to you for telling me about this and for your care of my cousin.” Mr. Wyatt acknowledged the courteous utterance with a deprecating gesture as they shook hands and followed quickly after the doctor, who was proceeding slowly up the steep staircase. * * * * * Sir Herbert Saunderson buried himself in _The Times_, always placed in his car. Suddenly he was disturbed. Mr. Wyatt, pale and hatless, stood on the pavement. “We were too late!” He uttered the words in a whisper, which ended in a gulp. The awed face told its own tale. Sir Herbert got out of his car and followed him without a word. At the bedside the three men stood silently, reverently looking down on David Saunderson. On his face that happy, superior smile seemed to say to them: “What a lucky fellow I am to have the best of it like this--and Wyatt provided for, too!” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of War-time Silhouettes, by Stephen Hudson