“I telegraphed to the Prime Minister,” said Clithering. “It was hours and hours ago. Or was it yesterday? It was just before I saw the woman shot. I told him that—that the soldiers—they were only meant to overawe the people—not to kill them—I said the soldiers must be withdrawn to barracks—I said they must not be allowed—”
I do not know whether it was exhaustion after nervous strain or the whisky which affected Clithering. Whisky—and he had swallowed nearly a glassful—does produce striking effects upon teetotallers; so it may have been the whisky. Clithering turned slowly over on his side and went sound asleep. Bland and I carried him upstairs to a bedroom on the top storey of the club. There were, Bland said, three bullets buried in the mattress, so it was fortunate that we had not carried Clithering up earlier in the day.
“Let’s get the waiter,” said Bland, “if he hasn’t gone away, and tell him to undress this fool!”
“It’s hardly necessary to undress him, is it?”
“Better to,” said Bland, “and take away his clothes. Then he’ll have to stay there, and won’t be able to send any more telegrams.”
“It’s rather a good thing he sent that last one,” I said. “If he hadn’t, somebody would certainly have been killed in the charge.”
“I suppose that telegram accounts for it,” said Bland. “I mean for the behaviour of the soldiers. Orders sent straight from Downing Street. I say, what a frightful temper the Commanding Officer must be in this minute! I wonder if I could get an interview with him.”
He looked questioningly at me. I fancy he hoped that I would give him a letter of introduction to the General in command of the district.
“His language,” said Bland, “would be a tremendous scoop for me. Could you—?”
“No,” I said, “I couldn’t. I don’t know him, and even if I did—”