"Then good night." With a click of decision, Ronnie replaced the receiver. Danger, ousting fear, galvanized him to action. He looked at the clock. The hands pointed to 9:15. The last train for West Water left at nine! He snatched up the telephone-book; found the doctor's number; called it.
A man-servant answered. "Sir Heron's engaged. Can I take any message?"
"No. I want to speak to him personally."
"Sir Heron is giving a dinner-party, sir."
"Tell him the matter is urgent ... Yes ... Cavendish ... Ronald Cavendish."
The man left the instrument. Waiting, Ronnie grew apprehensive. Suppose Sir Heron refused to come.... Then he heard, "Is that you, Cavendish? No bad news, I hope?"
"Very bad, I'm afraid. I've just spoken to Daffadillies on the telephone. My mother's had another hemorrhage. Can you come down to-night?"
"To-night?"
"Yes. With me. The last train's gone. I'm going down by taxi."
Silence ... and again Ronnie grew apprehensive. Sir Heron was a specialist--a great man. Absurd to ask such a favor of him!