“I can’t come to London: it is humanly impossible. Can’t you get somebody at the Home Office to certify this? When is this man to be hanged?”
“To-morrow morning, sir, at eight o’clock.”
The Secretary of State considered, rubbing his chin irritably.
“I should be no man if I refused to see this damned picture,” he said, and Dick made allowance for his language as he rubbed his suffering limb. “But I can’t go to town unless you get me an ambulance. You had better ’phone a garage in London to send a car down, or, better still, get one from the local hospital.”
Everything seemed to be conspiring against him, for the local hospital’s ambulance was under repair, but at last Dick put through a message to town, with the promise that an ambulance would be on its way in ten minutes.
“An extraordinary story, a perfectly amazing story! And of course, I can grant you a respite. Or, if I’m convinced of the truth of this astounding romance, we could get the King to-night; I could even promise you a reprieve. But my death will lie at your door if I catch cold.”
Two hours passed before the ambulance came. The chauffeur had had to change his tyres twice on the journey. Very gingerly, accompanied by furious imprecations from the Cabinet Minister, his stretcher was lifted into the ambulance.
To Dick the journey seemed interminable. He had telephoned through to Silenski, asking him to keep his office open until his arrival. It was eight o’clock by the time the Minister was assisted up to the theatre, and the picture was thrown upon the screen.
Mr. Whitby watched the drama with the keenest interest, and when it was finished he drew a long breath.
“That’s all right so far as it goes,” he said, “but how do I know this hasn’t been play-acted in order to get this man a reprieve? And how am I to be sure that this wretched tramp is your man?”