He stood up, gulping, expecting Ottalie. The lady entered. She was not Ottalie. She was a total stranger in a state of great excitement.
"Are you Mr. Naldrett, sir?" she said.
"Yes. Yes. What is it?"
"Mrs. Pollock's compliments, sir, and will you please come round at once?"
"What's the matter?"
"It's Mr. Pollock, sir. He's had a fit or somethink. He's lying in the grate with all the blood gone to his apalex."
"Right," said Roger, stuffing his letters into his pockets. "I'll come. When did it happen?"
"Just now, sir. He'd just gone into the studio, to begin his painting. Then there came a crash. And the missus and I rush in, and there he was in the grate, sir."
"Yes. Yes. Have you sent for a doctor?"
"No, sir. The missus said to go for you."