“Yes, miss, with the tears streaming down my face. That night me and cook looked out our black.”
“But, heavens! surely you sent for a doctor?”
“Yes, miss. Not—Dr. Snitterfield. I sent a telegram to Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Mr. Grimshaw?” The name literally smote her. “But he’s in France.”
“Oh, no, miss. Mr. Grimshaw is ill too.”
Pelion piled upon Ossa!
“What next?” gasped Cicely.
“Mr. Grimshaw ain’t confined to his bed, miss. It seems he got invalided home with malaria or trench fever, something or other that jumps on and off.”
“Yes, yes; please go on. You wired for Mr. Grimshaw, and he couldn’t come?”
“Bless you, miss, he ain’t like that. He came by the next train from London. The master brightened up the instant minute he saw him. And Mr. Grimshaw had his own way with him, you may be sure. And, of course, he took on Dr. Pawley’s other cases. He’s in the dispensary now. I daresay, miss, you’d like to see Mr. Grimshaw?”