Denis Quirk was busy in his office, writing, revising, correcting proofs, reading a celebrated work for review, criticising illustrations, doing many things and several men's work at the one time. He had a sub-editor, a very capable journalist, but he had the feeling, like other great men, that no one could do his work but he, and in this he was partly right. The telephone rang while he was thus engaged, and he sprang up and seized the receiver. Grey Town was speaking.
"Yes, Grey Town speaking. It is Kathleen O'Connor. Can you hear me?"
"Distinctly," he answered.
"Mrs. Quirk is seriously ill. She wants you."
"I will be with you in seven hours. Will she last till then?"
"Dr. Marsh thinks so; but please waste no time. Good-bye."
He rang his bell, and the office messenger answered it with promptitude. He had learned the lesson of haste when the master's bell rang.
"Send Mr. Gillon to me, and order a motor to take me to Grey Town at once. Ring up my flat, and ask my man to pack my valise," cried Denis. "Tell the motor to call for it," he added.
To the sub-editor he confided the work that still remained to be done.