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She held her slender hand up against the light, and looked at the splash of wet upon it. "You cry?" There was a glimmer of something in the eyes that redeemed their vagueness. A rushlight seen shining through a night of mist upon a desolate mountain-side might have meant as little or as much to eyes that saw it. Saxham saw it, and it meant much to him.
Her white hand wavered in the air, as though she meant to stretch it out to him. "It is not possible to be too good to you!" said Saxham curtly. He would not see the outstretched hand. She drew it back, and faltered: "You give me everything " "You have given me what I most wanted in the world!" he lied bravely.
Bough died three hours later, as the grey dawn straggled through the blinds, and the men with the district ambulance waited at the door, and Dr. Owen Saxham went about his work that day with a strange sensation of expecting some heavy blow that was about to fall. It fell upon the day following the Coroner's Inquest.
With his undamaged arm he swung round his haversack, bulging at the top with a cheap, bone-keyed, rosewood-veneered, gaudy-paper-sided instrument of German make, and hung his head over it in silence. "But what on earth has the concertina got to do with it?" Saxham was frankly puzzled, and Beauvayse, with all his professional knowledge of "Tommy," was for once nonplussed.
It is the groaning, undoubtedly, of the wounded man to whose aid he has been summoned, with the added injunction, "Bring morphia," showing that little further can be done for him, whoever he may be, than to smooth his passage into the Beyond by the aid of the Pain Slayer. Let him wait, however sore his need, until Saxham has dealt with his enemy.
A paragraph in this copy of the Cape Town Mercury, which, by the way, is three weeks old." A rubbed and shabby newspaper, folded small, came out of the baggy breast-pocket of the khâki jacket. Saxham received it with visible annoyance. "Some belated notice of one of my books." The scowl with which he surveyed the paper testified to a strong desire to pitch it to the winds. "Not a bit of it.
This is your department. But I shall ask five minutes more grace in the interests of the friend I spoke of, Dr. Saxham; with whom I made an appointment at the half-hour." "You're no' by any chance meaning the Saxham that wrote 'The Diseases of Civilisation, are ye, Colonel?
He wondered, looking at the square, set face, whether Saxham had ever really earned the degrading nickname that he could not get quite right. The 'Peg Doctor, was it? or the 'Lush Doctor? Something in that way.... Not that Saxham looked like a man given to lifting his elbow with undue frequency....
Raising him deftly and tenderly, Saxham signed to the nurse, who hurried to him, answering his low questions in whispers, giving aid where he indicated it required.
She went into the room. Saxham was not there. The lamp shed its circle of light upon the consulting-room writing-table. The armchair stood aside, as though hastily pushed back.... Signs of his recent presence were visible. The fireplace was heaped high with the ashes of burned papers; the acrid smell of their burning hung still on the close air. She glanced back at the table.
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