“Well—Southall?”
The doctor’s hand closed over the white one on the settee. He did not answer, but his chin was quivering and he was winking fast.
“How long?” asked the major after a lengthy minute.
“Maybe—maybe an hour, Bristow. Maybe not.”
The major winced and shut his eyes, but when the doctor, reaching swiftly for a phial on the table, turned again, it was to find that look once more on him, now in yearning appeal. “Southall,” he said, “send for Judith. I—I must see her. There’s time.”
The judge started up. “I’ll bring her,” he said, and his voice had all the tenderness of a woman’s. “My carriage is at the door and with those horses she ought to be here in twenty minutes.” He leaned over the couch. “Bristow,” he said, “would you—would you like me to send for the rector?”
The major smiled, a little wistfully, and shook his head. He lay silent for a while after the judge had gone out—he seemed housing his strength—while the ormolu clock on the desk ticked ominously on, and the doctor busied himself with the glasses beside him. Presently he said huskily:
“You’ve had a bad fall, Bristow. You were dizzy, I reckon.”
“Dizzy!” echoed the major with feeble asperity. “It was Greef King.”
“Greef King! Good God!”